Chapter II (4)

"All fight's in vain:
This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.
I fall--fall as I ought--quite on the babe I guard:
I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard
To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I--one inch!
Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!
O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!--see!
It grinds--it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,
Could I do more? Besides he knew the wolf's way to win:
I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in,
Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels
The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels,
Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf
And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief,
I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped
Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped
Thus,--how or when or why--I know not. Tell me, friends,
All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!
Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof,
Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof
Which holds my three--my two--my one--not one?

"Life 's mixed
With misery, yet we live--must live. The Satan fixed
His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch
Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,
'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!
Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling,
Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears
--What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years,
Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!
May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly
Ivàn rose, raised his axe,--for fitly as she knelt,
Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,--dealt
Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow--no need of more!
Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core
(Neighbors used to say)--cast-iron-kernelled--which
Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be:
I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'"
Then stooping, peering round--what is it now he lacks?
A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe,
Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.
The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind
Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts--from where it steeps
Redder each ruddy rag of pine--the head: two more
Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,
Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends
Opposite to the church; where halting,--who suspends,
By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place
The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace
Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife
And mother, loved until this latest of her life.
Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space
Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make
The village up, are found assembling for the sake
Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there:
A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,
Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes
And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,--none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope--the priest--
Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least.
With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too,
Stàrosta, that's his style,--like Equity Judge with you,--
Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,
Pomeschik--Lord of the Land, who wields--and none demurs--
A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta--the thorpe's
Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard,
From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word--
"God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence--the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way
Of righting wrong--if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!
Why was not law observed?

* * * * *

Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named
Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old--
How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled
Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,
Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage
At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern
Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn
When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod
With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.
'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw
And paid obedience to man's visionary law:
'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand
Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand
Firm on its base,--know cause, who, before, knew effect.

* * * * *

I hold he saw
The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law,
Whereof first instrument was first intelligence
Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense,
The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface
Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace.
Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found
A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound
Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey.
Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day,
No otherwise than did, in ages long ago,
Moses when he made known the purport of that flow
Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim
Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

* * * * *

When the Amen grew dull
And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged,
"Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged
Escape from punishment in such a novel case.
Deferring to old age and holy life,--be grace
Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense
Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence
Of breach therein lies plain,--blood-red-bright--all may see!
Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"

* * * * *

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped
Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped,
Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.
Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through,
Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch
Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich
He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights.
Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights,
Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete.
Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat
Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread.
Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head,
Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,--each a dome,
The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home
Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch,
--An acorn-cup--was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch
Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free
As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A DAGGER OF THE MIND.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1.

[MACBETH, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone,
sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:]

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:--
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
(_A bell rings._)

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE MURDER.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2.

SCENE _in the Castle. Enter_ LADY MACBETH.

LADY MACBETH.--That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!--Peace!
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

MACBETH (_within_).--Who's there? What, ho!

LADY MACBETH.--Alack, I am afraid they have awaked
And 't is not done:--the attempt and not the deed
Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled
My father, as he slept, I had done 't.--My husband!

(_Enter_ MACBETH.)

MACBETH.--I have done the deed. Didst thou
not hear a noise?

LADY MACBETH.--I heard the owl scream,
and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?

MACBETH.--When?

LADY MACBETH.--Now.

MACBETH.--As I descended?

LADY MACBETH.--Ay.

MACBETH.--Hark!--
Who lies i' the second chamber?

LADY MACBETH.--Donalbain.

MACBETH (_looking on his hands_).--This is a sorry sight.

LADY MACBETH.--A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

MACBETH.--There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried,
"Murder!"
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and addressed them
Again to sleep.

LADY MACBETH.--There are two lodged together.

MACBETH.--One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us."

LADY MACBETH.--Consider it not so deeply.

MACBETH.--But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.

LADY MACBETH.--These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

MACBETH.--Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

LADY MACBETH.--What do you mean?

MACBETH.--Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

LADY MACBETH.--Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things.--Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

MACBETH.--I'll go no more!
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on 't again, I dare not.

LADY MACBETH.--Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.
[_Exit. Knocking within._

MACBETH.--Whence is that knocking?
How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green--one red.

(_Re-enter_ LADY MACBETH.)

LADY MACBETH.--My hands are of your color; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. (_Knocking._) I hear a knocking
At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. (_Knocking._) Hark, more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers:--be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

MACBETH.--To know my deed, 't were best not know myself.
(_Knocking._)
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane,
I heard two corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And nae body kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,
We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whare he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

ANONYMOUS.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in
South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's,
and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the
20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed
in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into
slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too
fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the
intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman,
whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later,
he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never
recovered from this.]

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles,
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,--
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray;
And full of love and peace and rest,--its daily labor o'er,--
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide
Must trust their oars--methinks not few--against the ebbing tide.
O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,--
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet.
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame!
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl.
The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar--
O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child.
But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel;
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing;
They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring!
Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town,
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown.
They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went,
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before,
The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,--
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles,
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey,
She 's safe,--she 's dead,--she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled,--O'Driscoll's child,--she thought of Baltimore.

'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand,
Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,--
'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,--he who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there:
Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er,
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl:
"I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl;
Fly with me from this garden small
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure,
Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;
Here with my sword and horse I stand,
To bear thee away to my distant land.

"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,
A token of love that as ripely blows."
With his glove of steel he plucked the token,
But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.

The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight,
Thy fingers of iron can only smite;
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell;
But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!"
"Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,
And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,
Who snatched his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled,
Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped;
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse
Was the living man, and the woman's corse.

That morning the rose was bright of hue;
That morning the maiden was fair to view;
But the evening sun its beauty shed
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.

JOHN STERLING.

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,--
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled
Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been--
_That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee--
I have to tell a humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth
(If any), will be sad and simple truth.

"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,--
So oft our peasant's use his wife to name,
"Father" and "Master" to himself applied,
As life's grave duties matronize the bride,--
"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north
With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth
To his day labor, from the cottage door,--
"I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before,
There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1] roar?
It's brewing up, down westward; and look there,
One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,
As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,--
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."

"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried;
Two little lasses to the father's side
Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy
The answering language of the mother's eye.
_There_ was denial, and she shook her head:
"Nay, nay,--no harm will come to them," she said,
"The mistress lets them off these short dark days
An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,
May quite be trusted--and I know 't is true--
To take care of herself and Jenny too.
And so she ought,--she's seven come first of May,--
Two years the oldest; and they give away
The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."

The mother's will was law (alas, for her
That hapless day, poor soul!)--_she_ could not err,
Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane
(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again.
When each had had her turn; she clinging so
As if that day she could not let him go.
But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss
In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,
"God bless my little maids!" the father said,
And cheerily went his way to win their bread.
Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,
What looks demure the sister pair put on,--
Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,
Or questioning the love that could deny;
But simply, as their simple training taught,
In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought
(Submissively resigned the hope of play)
Towards the serious business of the day.

To me there 's something touching, I confess,
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,
Seen often in some little childish face
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child.
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,
Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.
So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow,
The docile Lizzy stood attentive now.
Proud of her years and of the imputed sense,
And prudence justifying confidence,--
And little Jenny, more demurely still,
Beside her waited the maternal will.
So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain
Gainsborough ne'er painted: no--nor he of Spain,
Glorious Murillo!--and by contrast shown
More beautiful. The younger little one,
With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,
By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing,
And lustrous eyes as dark.
"Now, mind and bring
Jenny safe home," the mother said,--"don't stay
To pull a bough or berry by the way:
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,--
That plank's so crazy, and so slippery
(If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.
But you're good children--steady as old folk--
I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,
A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,
And ample little Jenny's lack supplied
With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,
"To wrap it round and knot it carefully
(Like this), when you come home, just leaving free
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away--
Good will to school, and then good right to play."

Was there no sinking at the mother's heart
When, all equipt, they turned them to depart?
When down the lane she watched them as they went
Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent
Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:
Such warnings _have been_ sent, we know full well
And must believe--believing that they are--
In mercy then--to rouse, restrain, prepare.

And now I mind me, something of the kind
Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind,
Making it irksome to bide all alone
By her own quiet hearth. Though never known
For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay
At home with her own thoughts, but took her way
To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,--
Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,--
And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.
Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back.
But then
It won't do in such things to humor men,--
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,--
Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with you
I stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do--
And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone
To get dry things, and set the kettle on."

His day's work done, three mortal miles and more,
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.
A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!
But yet far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue,--that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in the slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!

With what a thankful gladness in his face,
(Silent heart-homage,--plant of special grace!)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before,
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;
The very blackbird strained its little throat,
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale and "say her say,"
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.
And when the winter day closed in so fast;
Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers--driving sleet and snow--
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight
(His polestar) of that little twinkling light
From one small window, through the leafless trees,--
Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,--
Silenced by winter,--note of summer bird
Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,--
Off started he, and then a form was seen
Darkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the mother's hand that held her back:
And yet a moment--a few steps--and there,
Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;
Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,
"Master, we've done our business for the day."
The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,
The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;
The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn;
How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on!
How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?
Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,
With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.

Such was the hour--hour sacred and apart--
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,
And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,--
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

'T was a wild evening,--wild and rough. "I knew,"
Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,--
And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,--
I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought
My little maids were not safe housed before
That blinding hail-storm,--ay, this hour and more,--
Unless by that old crazy bit of board,
They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford,
That I 'll be bound for,--swollen as it must be--
Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me--"
But, checking the half-thought as heresy,
He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone,
And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.

He 's in the lane again,--and there below,
Streams from the open doorway that red glow,
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize
Cautious he feels,--all safe and snug it lies,--
"Down, Tinker! down, old boy!--not quite so free,--
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.--
But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right!
Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?
Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather,
When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!"
And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,--
Mark Fenton's,--him he took with short delay
To bear him company,--for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, nook,
Till suddenly--as nearing now the brook--
Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,--
Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,
Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,--
He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light
Low down,--he 's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine,--the old dog 's found them, Mark."
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull contracted light could show
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.
"Yet there 's life somewhere,--more than Tinker's whine,--
That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine
Down yonder. There's the dog,--and, hark!" "O dear!"
And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something,--a dark huddled heap,--
Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it, propped
By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt
Endways the broken plank, when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day!
"My babes!--my lambkins!" was the father's cry.
_One little voice_ made answer, "Here am I!"
'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white,
More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,--
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,
The doting father? Where 's the unriven rock
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part
As that soft sentient thing,--the human heart?

They lifted her from out her watery bed,--
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside;
And one small hand,--the mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving _that_ free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction--"_fast_ and warm"--
Too well obeyed,--too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed,
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.
"She might have lived,
Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,
"But for my foolishness about that shawl!
And Master would have kept them back the day;
But I was wilful,--driving them away
In such wild weather!"
Thus the tortured heart
Unnaturally against itself takes part,
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl--her winding-sheet--
About the precious clay. One heart still beat,
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh,--and now she knew him not.
"Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?
Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
And tied the shawl quite close--she can't be cold--
But she won't move--we slipt--I don't know how--
But I held on--and I'm so weary now--
And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!--
And she won't move;--if daddy was but here!"

* * * * *

Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear;
But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay,--
They their dead burden had resigned, to take
The living, so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man,--with tender care
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold
(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),
He clasped her close, and so, with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above, below,--for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, "She won't move."
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,--
That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now _I tell what I have seen_.

Life struggled long with death in that small frame,
But it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family,--
All, saving that which nevermore might be:
There was an empty place,--they were but three.

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

[1] A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny.

HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers rang by two, by three;
"Pull! if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells!
Play uppe _The Brides of Enderby_!"

Men say it was a "stolen tyde,"--
The Lord that sent it, he knows all,
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall;
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied,
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore;
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,--
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking-song.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow!
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!
Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow!
Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow;
From the clovers lift your head!
Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!
Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed."

If it be long--ay, long ago--
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of _Enderby_.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where, full fyve good miles away,
The steeple towered from out the greene.
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds, where their sedges are,
Moved on in sunset's golden breath;
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,
Came downe that kyndly message free,
_The Brides of Mavis Enderby_.

Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, "And why should this thing be,
What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of _Enderby_.

"For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys, warping down,--
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne;
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring _The Brides of Enderby_?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main;
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!
The rising tide comes on apace;
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place!"
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother!" straight he sayth;
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon tells beganne to play,
Afar I heard her milking-song."
He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left, _Ho, Enderby_!
They rang _The Brides of Enderby_.

With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud,--
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,--
Then beaten foam flew round about,--
Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast, the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,--
And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night;
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church-tower, red and high,--
A lurid mark, and dread to see;
And awsome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang _Enderby_.

They rang the sailor lads to guide,
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
And I,--my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O, come in life, or come in death!
O lost! my love, Elizabeth!"

And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare?
The waters laid thee at his doore
Ere yet the early dawn was clear:
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,--
fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more than myne and mee;
But each will mourne his own (she sayth)
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth,
Where the water, winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more,
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver,
Stand beside the sobbing river,--
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
To the sandy, lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow!
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!
Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow!
Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow;
Lightfoot! Whitefoot!
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed!"

JEAN INGELOW.

RIZPAH.

17--.

I.

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea--
And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out to me."
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go?
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares
at the snow.

II.

We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town.
The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down,
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain,
And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched
with the rain.

III.

Anything fallen again? nay--what was there left to fall?
I have taken them home, I have numbered the bones, I have
hidden them all.
What am I saying? and what are _you_? do you come as a spy?
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.

IV.

Who let her in? how long has she been? you--what have you heard?
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word.
O--to pray with me--yes--a lady--none of their spies--
But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes.

V.

Ah--you, that have lived so soft, what should _you_ know
of the night,
The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright?
I have done it, while you were asleep--you were only made for
the day.
I have gathered my baby together--and now you may go your way.