Chapter IV: Part 4

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, Two damozels wearing purple and green, Four lone ladies dwelling here From day to day and year to year; And there is none to let us go; To break the locks of the doors below, Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow; And when we die no man will know That we are dead; but they give us leave, Once every year on Christmas-eve, To sing in the Closet Blue one song: And we should be so long, so long, If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream, They float on in a happy stream; They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise: But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;

_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._

(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)

How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow? "Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;

"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;

"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die."

_And in truth the great bell overhead_ _Left off pealing for the dead,_ _Perchance because the wind was--dead._

Will he come back again or is he dead? Or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?

Or did they strangle him as he lay there, With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?

Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here; Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.

_Through the floor shot up a lily red,_ _With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,_ _For he was strong in the land of the dead._

What matter that his cheeks were pale,
His kind kiss'd lips all gray?
"O love Louise, have you waited long?"
"O my Lord Arthur, yea."

What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again.
As in the happy time.

"O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand,
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?"

_And ever the great bell overhead,_ _And the tumbling sea mourned for the dead;_ _For their song ceased, and they were dead._

THE GHOST'S PETITION: CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

"There's a footstep coming; look out and see."-- "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea."--

"There's a footstep coming; O sister, look."-- "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook."--

"But he promised that he would come: To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"For he promised that he would come; His word was given; from earth to heaven, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane; You can slumber, who need not number Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

"I shall sit here awhile and watch; Listening, hoping for one hand groping, In deep shadow, to find the latch."

After the dark and before the light, One lay sleeping, and one sat weeping, Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night and before the day, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping-- Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair, Some one standing out on the landing Shook the door like a puff of air.--

Shook the door and in he passed. Did he enter? In the room center Stood her husband; the door shut fast.

"O Robin, but you are cold-- Chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

"O Robin, but you are late: Come and sit near me--sit here and cheer me."-- (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

"Lay not down your head on my breast: I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you In the shelter that you love best.

"Feel not after my clasping hand: I am but a shadow, come from the meadow, Where many lie, but no tree can stand.

"We are trees that have shed their leaves: Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.

"I could rest if you would not moan Hour after hour; I have no power To shut my ears as I lie alone.

"I could rest if you would not cry, But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping-- Watching, weeping so bitterly."--

"Woe's me! Woe's me! For this I have heard. Oh night of sorrow--oh, black to-morrow! Is it thus that you keep your word?

"Oh, you who used so to shelter me, Warm from the least wind--why, now the east wind Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.

"Oh, my husband of flesh and blood, For whom my mother I left, and brother, And all I had, accounting it good,

"What do you do there, under the ground, In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow. What do you do there? What have you found?"--

"What I do there I must not tell, But I have plenty--kind wife, content ye: It is well with us: it is well.

"Tender hand hath made our nest; Our fear is ended; our hope is blended With present pleasure, and we have rest."

"Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come, If your present days are so pleasant, For my days are so wearisome.

"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake: Why should I tease you, who cannot please you Any more with the pains I take?"

HE AND SHE: SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair.

Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

Above her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes Which were the whitest no eye could choose,--

And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away," they said, "God understands."

And there was silence, and nothing there But silence and scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses and rosemary, And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she."

And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp, and he took the key And turned it--alone again, he and she.

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.

He and she; still she did not move To any passionate whisper of love.

Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice or language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear: What is the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its record, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear.

"I listen as deep as to terrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid, from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--

"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,--

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say, With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,

"The utmost wonder is this--I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride. And know, that though dead, I have never died."

SHAPES OF DOOM

THE DEAD COACH: KATHERINE TYNAN

At night when sick folk wakeful lie, I heard the dead coach passing by, Heard it passing wild and fleet, And knew my time had come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, Who takes the dead coach travels fast, On and away through the wild night, The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track, The coach and horses midnight black, Within should sit a shape of doom That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait To hear the dead coach at their gate, And him who hears, though sense be dim, The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face, And mount the steps and take his place, The door be shut, the order said, How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of us all, Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

'Tis They, of a veritie--
They are calling thin an' shrill;
We maun rise an' put to sea,
We maun gi'e the deid their will,
We maun ferry them owre the faem,
For they draw us as they list;
We maun bear the deid folk hame
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

"But how can I gang the nicht,
When I'm new come hame frae sea?
When my heart is sair for the sicht
O' my lass that langs for me?"
"O your lassie lies asleep,
An' sae do your bairnes twa;
The cliff-path's stey and steep,
An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."

O sae hooly steppit we,
For the nicht was mirk an' lown,
Wi' never a sign to see,
But the voices all aroun'.
We laid to the saut sea-shore,
An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide,
As she micht hae dipped wi' a score,
An' our ain three sel's beside.

O the boat she settled low,
Till her gunwale kissed the faem,
An' she didna loup nor row
As she bare the deid folk hame;
But she aye gaed swift an' licht,
An' we naething saw nor wist,
Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

There was never a sign to see,
But a misty shore an' low;
Never a word spak' we,
But the boat she lichtened slow,
An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair,
An' a cauld hand touched my wrist,
An' my heart sank cauld and sair
I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

Then the wind raise up wi' a maen,
('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet).
Like a deid saul wud wi' pain,
Like a bairnie wild wi' freit;
But the boat rade swift an' licht,
Sae we wan the land fu' sune,
An' the shore showed wan an' white
By a glint o' the waning mune.

We steppit oot owre the sand
Where an unco' tide had been,
An' Black Donald caught my hand
An' coverit up his een:
For there, in the wind an' weet,
Or ever I saw nor wist,
My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet,
In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

An' it's O for my bonny Jean!
An' it's O for my bairnies twa,
It's O an' O for the watchet een
An' the steps that are gane awa'--
Awa' to the Silent Place,
Or ever I saw nor wist,
Though I wot we twa went face to face
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON: SYDNEY DOBELL

The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hands upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold.
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps where Andrew stood,--
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine,
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

THE FETCH: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

"What makes you so late at the tryst,
What caused you so long to be?
I have waited a weary time
For the hour you promised me."

"Oh, glad were I here by your side,
Full many an hour ago,
But for what there passed on the road
All so mournfully and so slow."

"And what have you met on the road
That kept you so long and so late?"
"O full many an hour has gone
Since I left my father's gate.

"As I hastened on in the gloom,
By the road to you tonight,
I passed the corpse of a young maid
All clad in a shroud of white."

"And was she some friend once cherished,
Or was she a sister dead,
That you left your own true lover
Till the trysting hour had sped?"

"I could not see who it might be,
Her face was hidden away,
But I had to turn and follow
Wherever her resting lay."

"And did it go up by the town,
Or went it down by the lake?
I know there are but two church yards
Where a corpse its rest may take."

"They did not go by the town,
Nor by the lake stayed their feet,
But buried the corpse all silently
Where the four cross roads meet."

"And was it so strange a sight
That you should go like a child
Thus to leave me to wait, forgotten,
By a passing sight beguiled?"

"Oh, I heard them whisper my name,
Each mourner that passed by me;
And I had to follow their path,
Though their faces I could not see."

"And right well I would like to know
Who this fair young maid might be,
So take my hand, my own true love,
And hasten along with me."

He did not go down by the lake
He did not go by the town,
But carried her to the four cross roads,
And there he did set her down.

"Now I see no track of a foot,
I see no mark of a spade,
And I know well in this white road
There never a grave was made."

He took her hand in his right hand,
And he led her to town away,
And there he questioned the old priest,
Did he bury a maid that day.

He took her hand in his right hand,
Down to the church by the lake,
And there he questioned a young priest,
If a maiden her life did take.

But there was no tale of death
In all the parish round,
And neither had heard of a maid
Thus put in unholy ground.

He loosed her hand from his hand,
And turned on his heel away.
"I know you are false," he said,
"From the lie you told today."

And she said, "Oh, what evil things
Did tonight my senses take?"
She knelt down by the water side
And wept as her heart would break.

And she said, "Oh, what fairy sight
Was it thus my grief to see!
I'll sleep well 'neath the still water,
Since my love has turned on me."

* * * * *

And her love he went to the north,
And far to the south went he,
But still he heard her distant voice
Call, weeping so bitterly.

He could not rest in the daytime,
He could not sleep in the night,
Hastened back to the old road,
With the trysting-place in sight.

What first he heard was his love's name,
And keening both loud and long;
What first he saw was his love's face
At the head of a mourning throng.

And white she was as the dead are,
And never a move made she,
But passed him by on her black pall,
Still sleeping so peacefully.

And cold she was as the dead are,
And never a word she spake,
When they said, "Unholy is her grave,
Since she her life did take."

Silent she was, as the dead are,
And never a cry she made
When there came, more sad than the keening,
The ring of a digging spade.

No rest they gave in the town church,
No grave by the lake so sweet,
But buried her in unholy ground,
Where the four cross roads do meet.

THE BANSHEE: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

God be between us and all harm,
For I to-night have seen
A banshee in the shadow pass
Along the dark boreen.

And as she went she keened and cried,
And combed her long white hair,
She stopped at Molly Reilly's door,
And sobbed till midnight there.

And is it for himself she moans,
Who is so far away?
Or is it Molly Reilly's death
She cries until the day?

Now Molly thinks her man has gone
A sailor lad to be;
She puts a candle at her door
Each night for him to see.

But he is off to Galway town,
(And who dare tell her this?)
Enchanted by a woman's eyes,
Half-maddened by her kiss.

So as we go by Molly's door
We look towards the sea,
And say, "May God bring home your lad
Wherever he may be."

I pray it may be Molly's self
The banshee keens and cries,
For who dare breathe the tale to her,
Be it her man who dies?

But there is sorrow on the way,
For I tonight have seen
A banshee in the shadow pass
Along the dark boreen.

THE SEVEN WHISTLERS: ALICE E. GILLINGTON

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and
clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of
Porthmeor;
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden
grace,
It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped
loud in the Race:
The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining
whisht and low,
And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray
sea-lavenders grow,
And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;
And the gore-sprent sundews thrive
With oozy hands alive.
Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,
How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall? The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; "I rise in the shallows," 'a saith, "Where the mermaid's kettle sings, And the black shag flaps his wings!" Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore; And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; The fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "Heva!" in the town, And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; And ye hoist the mainsail brown, As over the deep-sea roll The lurker follows the shoal; To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor! It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,-- It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling whisht and low, And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves blow, And the moor-grass sways to and fro, Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness wild and drear,-- How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON

_The live man victorious_
_Rode spurring from the fight;_
_In a glad voice and glorious_
_He sang of his delight,_
_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
_Came after in the night._

And one laid hand on his bridle-rein--
Swift as the steed he sped--
"O, ride you fast, yet at the last,
Hate faster rides," he said.
"My sons shall know their father's foe
One day when blades are red."

And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar
Like touch o' driven mist,
"For joy you slew ere joy I knew,
For one girl's mouth unkissed,
At your board's head, at mass, at bed,
My pale ghost shall persist."

And one laid hands on his own two hands,
"O Brother o' mine," quoth he,
"What can I give to you who live
Like gift you gave to me?
Since from grief and strife and ache o' life
Your sword-stroke set me free."

_The live man victorious_
_Rode spurring from the fight;_
_In a glad voice and glorious_
_He sang of his delight,_
_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
_Came after in the night._

MAWGAN OF MELHUACH: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died: Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide: The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, They had heard strange voices amid the roar.

"Out with the boat there," someone cried,-- "Will he never come? We shall lose the tide: His berth is trim and his cabin stored, He's a weary long time coming aboard."

The old man struggled upon the bed: He knew the words that the voices said; Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim, "He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."

Hark yet again to the devilish roar! "He was nimbler once with a ship on shore; Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay, We must make the offing by break of day."

Hard was the struggle, but at the last With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.

THE MOTHER'S GHOST: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
_I myself was young._
There he has wooed him so winsome a maid;
_Fair words gladden so many a heart._

Together were they for seven years, And together children six were theirs;

Then came Death abroad through the land, And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, And again hath he wooed him another maid.

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard, There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread; "Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue, And said, "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."

She took from them the great wax light, "Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."

In the evning late they cried with cold, The mother heard it under the mould.

The woman heard it in the earth below: "To my little children I must go."

She standeth before the Lord of all: "And may I go to my children small?"

She prayed Him so long and would not cease, Until He bade her depart in peace.

"At cock-crow thou shalt return again; Longer thou shalt not there remain!"

She girded up her sorrowful bones, And rifted the walls and the marble stones.

As through the village she flitted by, The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.

When she came to the castle gate, There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"

"Never art thou mother of mine, For my mother was both fair and fine.

"My mother was white, with cheeks of red, But thou art pale and like to the dead."

"How should I be fair and fine? I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.

"How should I be white and red, So long, so long have I been dead?"

When she came in at the chamber door, There stood the small children weeping sore.

One she braided and one she brushed, The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, As if she would suckle it at her breast.

Then to her eldest daughter said she, "Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."

Into the chamber when he came She spake to him in anger and shame.

"I left behind me both ale and bread; My children hunger and are not fed.

"I left behind me the quilts of blue; My children lie on the straw ye strew.

"I left behind me the great wax light; My children lie in the dark at night.

"If I come again into your hall, As cruel a fate shall you befall!

"Now crows the cock with feathers red, Back to the earth must all the dead.

"Now crows the cock with feathers swart; The gates of heaven fly wide apart.

"Now crows the cock with feathers white; I can abide no longer to-night."

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, They gave the children bread and ale.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, They feared lest the dead were on their way.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark,
_I myself was young._
They feared the dead out there in the dark.
_Fair words gladden so many a heart._

THE DEAD MOTHER: ROBERT BUCHANAN

1

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, Under the grass as I lay so deep, As I lay asleep in my cotton serk Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, I waken'd up in my death-serk white, And I heard a cry from far away, And I knew the voice of my daughter May: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me! Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and in pain I cry, On straw in the dark afraid I lie, I thirst and hunger for drink and meat, And Mother, Mother, to sleep were sweet!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.

2

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep! The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in, And reached the chamber as dark as night, And though it was dark, my face was white: "Mother, Mother, I look on thee! Mother, Mother, you frighten me! For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!" But I smiled and kissed her fears away, I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song, And on my knee I rocked her long: "O Mother, Mother, sing low to me-- I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!" I kissed her, but I could not weep, And she went to sleep, and she went to sleep.

3

As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, My May and I, in our grave so deep, As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, Though May my daughter lay warm and white, For I heard the cry of a little one, And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me; Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and my heart is sad, But I speak my mind and call them bad; I thirst and hunger night and day, And were I strong I would fly away!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep!

4

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep, The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in. "Mother, Mother, and art thou here? I know your face and I feel no fear; Raise me, Mother, and kiss my cheek, For oh I am weary and sore and weak." I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy, And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy: I raised and held him on my breast, Sang him a song, and bade him rest. "Mother, Mother, sing low to me-- I am sleepy now and I cannot see!" I kissed him and I could not weep, As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.

5

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear, Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, And I heard a cry so low and weak From a tiny voice that could not speak; I heard the cry of a little one, My bairn that could neither talk nor run, My little, little one, uncaress'd, Starving for lack of the milk of the breast; And I rose from sleep and enter'd in, And found my little one, pinch'd and thin, And croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan, And put its lips to my white breast-bone; And the red, red moon that lit the place Went white to look at the little face, And I kiss'd and kiss'd and I could not weep, As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.

6

As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, I set it down in the darkness deep, Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out, And drew the curtains round about; Then into the dark, dark room I hied Where he lay awake at the woman's side, And though the chamber was black as night, He saw my face, for it was so white; I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, And I knew he would never sleep again, And back to my grave went silently, And soon my baby was brought to me; My son and daughter beside me rest, My little baby is on my breast; Our bed is warm and our grave is deep, But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep!

LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD

THE FOLK OF THE AIR: WM. BUTLER YEATS

O'Driscoll drove with a song,
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted weeds
Of the drear Heart Lake.

And he saw how the weeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And he dreamed of the long dark hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper passing away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine,
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the folk of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men,
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll got up from the grass
And scattered the cards with a cry;
But the old men and the dancers were gone
As a cloud faded into the sky.

He knew now the folk of the air,
And his heart was blackened by dread,
And he ran to the door of his house;
Old women were keening the dead.

And he heard high up in the air A piper piping away; And never was piping so sad And never was piping so gay.

THE RECONCILIATION: A. MARGARET RAMSAY

"The snow has ceased, the wind has hushed,
The moon shines fair and clear,
The night is drawing on apace,
Yet Evan is not here.

"The deer is couched among the fern,
The bird sleeps on the tree;
O what can keep my only son,
He bides so long from me?"

"O mother, come and take your rest,
Since Evan stays so late;
If we leave the door unbarred for him,
What need to sit and wait?"

"Now hold your peace, my daughter,
Be still and let me be,
I will not seek my bed this night
Until my son I see."

And she has left the door unbarred,
And by the fire sat still;
She drew her mantle her about
As the winter night grew chill.

The moon had set beyond the moor,
And half the night had gone,
When standing silent by her side
She saw Evan her son.

"I did not hear your step, Evan,
Nor hear you lift the pin."
"I would not wake my sister, mother,
So softly I came in."

"Now sit ye down and rest, Evan,
And I will give you meat."
"I have been with my cousin John, mother,
And he gave me to eat."

"Then have ye laid the quarrel by
That was 'twixt him and you,
And given each other pledge of faith
Ye will be friends anew?"

"We have laid the quarrel by, mother,
Forevermore to sleep,
And he has given me his knife,
As pledge of faith to keep."

"O is it blood or is it rust
That makes the knife so red,
Or is it but the red firelight
That's shining on the blade?"

"No rust is on the blade, mother,
Nor the firelight's ruddy hue;
The bright blood ran upon the knife
To seal our compact true."

"O is it with the pale gray gleam
That comes before the dawn,
Or are ye weary with the road
That ye look so ghastly wan?"

"A long and weary road, mother,
I fared to reach my home,
And I must get me to my bed
That waits for me to come."

"The night is bitter cold, Evan,
See that your bed be warm,
And take your plaid to cover you,
Lest the cold should do you harm."

"Yes, cold, cold is the night, mother,
Yet soundly do I rest,
With the bleak North wind to cover me,
And the snow white on my breast."

THE PRIEST'S BROTHER: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

Thrice in the night the priest arose From broken sleep to kneel and pray. "Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, And I a Mass for your soul may say."

Thrice he went to the chamber cold Where, stiff and still uncoffinéd His brother lay, his beads he told, And "Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said.

Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep Before the morning bell should toll; But still he heard--and woke to weep-- The crying of his brother's soul.

All through the dark, till dawn was pale, The priest tossed in his misery, With muffled ears to hide the wail The voice of that ghost's agony.

At last the red cock flaps his wings, To trumpet of a day new born. The lark, awaking, soaring, sings Into the bosom of the morn.

The priest before the altar stands He hears the spirit call for peace; He beats his breast with shaking hands. "Oh, Father, grant this soul's release.

Most Just and Merciful, set free From Purgatory's awful night This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee And rest forever in Thy sight."

The Mass is over--still the clerk Kneels pallid in the morning glow. He said, "From evils of the dark Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.

"Benediction, that I may rest, For all night did the banshee weep." The priest raised up his hands and blest-- "Go now, my child, and you will sleep."

The priest went down the vestry stair, He laid his vestments in their place, And turned--a pale ghost met him there With beads of pain upon his face.

"Brother," he said, "you have gained me peace, But why so long did you know my tears, And say no Mass for my soul's release To save the torture of those years?"

"God rest you, brother," the good priest said, "No years have passed--but a single night." He showed the body uncoffinéd And the six wax candles still alight.

The living flowers on the dead man's breast Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. The spirit paused ere he passed to rest-- "God save your soul from a night so long."

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT: ROBERT BUCHANAN

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky:
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Though the red Moon went by.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Looked on in its despair.

The breath of the World came and went
Like a sick man's in rest;
Drop by drop on the World's eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan--
"I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.

"I will bury it deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
My body will be gone!

"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and cold, God wot;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot!"

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
So grim, and gaunt and grey,
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot
And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field Its touch was cold as ice, And the ivory teeth within the jaw Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lantern's eye,
Opened and shut again.

Half he walked, and half he seemed
Lifted on the cold wind;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated, light as wool.

He drew the body on his back
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place that he came unto
Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swung thereon,
Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat
A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross
A grave yawned wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shivered and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep and swift and red.

He dared not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim,
And arms were waved in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on,
Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on
All through the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like the moaning wind
And the days like drifting snow.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face--
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east and he wandered west,
And heard no human sound;
For months and years in grief and tears,
He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walked the silent night,
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like a lighthouse gleam,
On a black night at sea.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Crawled to the distant gleam,
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,
Pushed on by hands unseen,
And the days went by like black, black rain,
And the nights like rushing rain.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange and sad and tall,
Stood all alone at the dead of night,
Before a lighted hall.

And all the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silver Moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Passed on the window-light.

And the shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow,
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen Pole
Glideth the lean white bear.

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
And the lights burned bright and clear--
"Oh, who is there?" the Bridegroom said,
"Whose weary feet I hear?"

'Twas one looked up from the lighted hall,
And answered soft and low,
"It is a wolf runs up and down,
With a black track in the snow."

The Bridegroom in his robe of white,
Sat at the table-head--
"Oh, who is that who moans without?"
The blessed Bridegroom said.

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
"'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro."

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord's Supper
Was spread so long and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked
And his face was bright to see--
"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper
With thy body's sins?" said he.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare--
"I have wandered many nights and days;
There is no light elsewhere."

'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright--
"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!"

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was full of snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touched the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding sheet.

'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
And beckoned, smiling sweet;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in and fell at his feet.

"The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!"

The supper wine is poured at last,
And the lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet,
And dries them with his hair.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN: WALTER SCOTT

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with the day,
He spurr'd his courser on,
Without stop or stay down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
His banner broad to rear;
He went not 'gainst the English yew,
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore:
At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space,
And his looks were sad and sour,
And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,
His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,--
But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page;
His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come hither to my knee;
Though thou art young and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.

"Come tell me all that thou hast seen,
And look thou tell me true!
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
What did my ladye do?"--

"My lady each night, sought the lonely light,
That burns on the wild Watchfold;
For from height to height, the beacons bright
Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamor'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watch'd her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;--
No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
It burned all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight,
Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary's might! an Arméd Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord
Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,
And I heard not what they were.

"The third night there, the night was fair,
And the mountain-blast was still,
As again I watch'd the secret pair,
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

"And I heard her name the midnight hour,
And name this holy eve;
And say 'Come this night to thy lady's bower,
Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone;
The door she'll undo, to her knight so true
On the eve of the good St. John.'--

"'I cannot come, I must not come:
I dare not come to thee;
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone,
In thy bower I may not be.'--

"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou shouldst not say me nay;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
Is worth the whole summer's day.

"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,
And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair:
So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John,
I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'

"'Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot,
And the warder his bugle should not blow,
Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east,
And my foot-step he would know.'--

"'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east,
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en,
And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'

"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd;
Then he laugh'd right scornfully--
'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,
May as well say mass for me!

"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,
In thy chamber will I be'--
With that he was gone and my lady left alone,
And no more did I see."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,
From the dark to the blood-red high;
"Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die!"--

"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light,
His plume, it was scarlet and blue,
On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,
And his crest was a branch of the yew."

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
Loud dost thou lie to me!
For that knight is cold and laid in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree."--

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!
For I heard her name his name;
And that lady bright she called the knight
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,
From the high blood-red to pale--
"The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark--
So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,
And Eildon slopes to the plain.
Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,
That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,
And the wild winds drown'd the name;
For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate,
And he mounted the narrow stair,
To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait,
He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;
Look'd o'er hill and vale;
Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,
And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"--
"Now hail, thou Baron, true!
What news, what news from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch?"

"The Ancram moor is red with gore,
For many a Southron fell;
And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
To watch our beacons well."--

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said:
Nor added the Baron a word,
Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,
And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,
And oft to himself he said:--
"The worms round him creep, and his bloody grave is deep.
It cannot give up the dead!"

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was well-nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.