Chapter II: Part 2

'You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,
And take to allotments and schools,
But you've run up a debt that will never
Be paid us by penny-club rules.

'In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day,
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;

'When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughter's bread,
And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;

'When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,
You will find in your God the protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave.'

She looked at the tuft of clover,
And wept till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.

Eversley, 1847. From Yeast.

SCOTCH SONG

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
To meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny birds
Sat biggin' in the broom.

The tane it built with the green, green moss,
But and the bents sae fine,
And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair
Linked up wi' siller twine.

'O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,
O whaur the bents sae fine?
And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair
That ance was tress o' mine?'

'We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile,
The bents fra' the whinny muir,
And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair,
To please his braw new fere.'

'Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,
And strew them saft o'er me;
My token's tint, my love is fause,
I'll lay me doon and dee.'

1847.

THE YOUNG KNIGHT: A PARABLE

A gay young knight in Burley stood, Beside him pawed his steed so good, His hands he wrung as he were wood With waiting for his love O!

'Oh, will she come, or will she stay, Or will she waste the weary day With fools who wish her far away, And hate her for her love O?'

But by there came a mighty boar, His jowl and tushes red with gore, And on his curled snout he bore A bracelet rich and rare O!

The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew, He searched the wild wood through and through, But found nought save a mantle blue, Low rolled within the brake O!

He twined the wild briar, red and white, Upon his head the garland dight, The green leaves withered black as night, And burnt into his brain O!

A fire blazed up within his breast, He mounted on an aimless quest, He laid his virgin lance in rest, And through the forest drove O!

By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, Through leat and furze brake fast drove he, Until he saw the homeless sea, That called with all its waves O!

He laughed aloud to hear the roar, And rushed his horse adown the shore, The deep surge rolled him o'er and o'er, And swept him down the tide O!

New Forest, July 12, 1847.

A NEW FOREST BALLAD

Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,
And down by Bradley Water;
And the fairest maid on the forest side
Was Jane, the keeper's daughter.

She went and went through the broad gray lawns
As down the red sun sank,
And chill as the scent of a new-made grave
The mist smelt cold and dank.

'A token, a token!' that fair maid cried,
'A token that bodes me sorrow;
For they that smell the grave by night
Will see the corpse to-morrow.

'My own true love in Burley Walk
Does hunt to-night, I fear;
And if he meet my father stern,
His game may cost him dear.

'Ah, here's a curse on hare and grouse,
A curse on hart and hind;
And a health to the squire in all England,
Leaves never a head behind.'

Her true love shot a mighty hart
Among the standing rye,
When on him leapt that keeper old
From the fern where he did lie.

The forest laws were sharp and stern,
The forest blood was keen;
They lashed together for life and death
Beneath the hollies green.

The metal good and the walnut wood
Did soon in flinders flee;
They tost the orts to south and north,
And grappled knee to knee.

They wrestled up, they wrestled down,
They wrestled still and sore;
Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet
Was stamped to mud and gore.

Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,
That starest with never a frown
On all the grim and the ghastly things
That are wrought in thorpe and town:

And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,
That night hadst never the grace
To lighten two dying Christian men
To see one another's face.

They wrestled up, they wrestled down,
They wrestled sore and still,
The fiend who blinds the eyes of men
That night he had his will.

Like stags full spent, among the bent
They dropped a while to rest;
When the young man drove his saying knife
Deep in the old man's breast.

The old man drove his gunstock down
Upon the young man's head;
And side by side, by the water brown,
Those yeomen twain lay dead.

They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard;
They dug them side by side;
Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair
A widow and never a bride.

In the New Forest, 1847.

THE RED KING

The King was drinking in Malwood Hall, There came in a monk before them all: He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight, Stood over against the dais aright; And, 'The word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King, The word of the Lord to thee I bring. A grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen; I saw thee lie under the hollins green, And through thine heart an arrow keen; And out of thy body a smoke did rise, Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies: So if thou God's anointed be I rede thee unto thy soul thou see. For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold, False knight to Christ, for gain and gold; And for this thy forest were digged down all, Steading and hamlet and churches tall; And Christes poor were ousten forth, To beg their bread from south to north. So tarry at home, and fast and pray, Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day.'

The monk he vanished where he stood; King William sterte up wroth and wood; Quod he, 'Fools' wits will jump together; The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather Have turned the brains for us both, I think; And monks are curst when they fall to drink. A lothly sweven I dreamt last night, How there hoved anigh me a griesly knight, Did smite me down to the pit of hell; I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell. There's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie, So he of you all shall hunt with me; A grimly brace for a hart to see.'

The Red King down from Malwood came; His heart with wine was all aflame, His eyne were shotten, red as blood, He rated and swore, wherever he rode. They roused a hart, that grimly brace, A hart of ten, a hart of grease, Fled over against the kinges place. The sun it blinded the kinges ee, A fathom behind his hocks shot he: 'Shoot thou,' quod he, 'in the fiendes name, To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame.' And he hove up his hand to mark the game. Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot; For whether the saints they swerved the shot, 'Or whether by treason, men knowen not, But under the arm, in a secret part, The iron fled through the kinges heart. The turf it squelched where the Red King fell; And the fiends they carried his soul to hell, Quod 'His master's name it hath sped him well.'

Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day, Quod 'Shooting of kings is no bairns' play;' And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away. As he pricked along by Fritham plain, The green tufts flew behind like rain; The waters were out, and over the sward: He swam his horse like a stalwart lord: Men clepen that water Tyrrel's ford. By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, Through glade and furze brake fast drove he, Until he heard the roaring sea; Quod he, 'Those gay waves they call me.' By Mary's grace a seely boat On Christchurch bar did lie afloat; He gave the shipmen mark and groat, To ferry him over to Normandie, And there he fell to sanctuarie; God send his soul all bliss to see.

And fend our princes every one, From foul mishap and trahison; But kings that harrow Christian men Shall England never bide again.

In the New Forest, 1847,

THE OUTLAW

Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade. Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-- Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword.

Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen; Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky, Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.

Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown, Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town; Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares, Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.

Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands, Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands. Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war-- There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair.

If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still, And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill; Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee: But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me.

For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell; And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near, Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.

Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals; I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills; For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.

So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer, Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here; Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes, Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.

Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae, As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day. Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky-- That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.

And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer, Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air; But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree, And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.

Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away, Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray; And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky, The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.

In the New Forest, 1847.

SING HEIGH-HO!

There sits a bird on every tree;
Sing heigh-ho!
There sits a bird on every tree,
And courts his love as I do thee;
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.

There grows a flower on every bough;
Sing heigh-ho!
There grows a flower on every bough,
Its petals kiss--I'll show you how:
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.

From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Sing heigh-ho!
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a mate, and leads her home;
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.

The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride;
Sing heigh-ho!
They court from morn till eventide:
The earth shall pass, but love abide.
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.

Eversley, 1847.

A MARCH

Dreary East winds howling o'er us;
Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;
Mire and ice and snow and sleet;
Aching backs and frozen feet;
Knees which reel as marches quicken,
Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;
While with carrion birds we eat,
Calling puddle-water sweet,
As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:
What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?

Eversley, 1848.

A LAMENT

The merry merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

Eversley, 1848.

THE NIGHT BIRD: A MYTH

A floating, a floating Across the sleeping sea, All night I heard a singing bird Upon the topmost tree.

'Oh came you off the isles of Greece, Or off the banks of Seine; Or off some tree in forests free, Which fringe the western main?'

'I came not off the old world Nor yet from off the new-- But I am one of the birds of God Which sing the whole night through.'

'Oh sing, and wake the dawning-- Oh whistle for the wind; The night is long, the current strong, My boat it lags behind.'

'The current sweeps the old world, The current sweeps the new; The wind will blow, the dawn will glow Ere thou hast sailed them through.'

Eversley, 1848.

THE DEAD CHURCH

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,
The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.

Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;
Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain.
Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying;
Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again.

Eversley, 1848.

A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
On the stump of a rotting old tree;
'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,
And the world is nigh ready for me.'

The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,
And smiled as he crumbled the tree;
'Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,
And the world is too live yet for thee.'

Eversley, 1848.

THE STARLINGS

Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing-- 'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.'

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing-- 'Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily; Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.'

Eversley, 1848.

OLD AND NEW: A PARABLE

See how the autumn leaves float by decaying, Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream. So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again; Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.

Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying, Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen; So, though old forms pass by, ne'er shall their spirit die, Look! England's bare boughs show green leaf again.

Eversley, 1848.

THE WATCHMAN

'Watchman, what of the night?'
'The stars are out in the sky;
And the merry round moon will be rising soon,
For us to go sailing by.'

'Watchman, what of the night?'
'The tide flows in from the sea;
There's water to float a little cockboat
Will carry such fishers as we.'

'Watchman, what of the night?'
'The night is a fruitful time;
When to many a pair are born children fair,
To be christened at morning chime.'

1849.

THE WORLD'S AGE

Who will say the world is dying?
Who will say our prime is past?
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
Flash, and will flash till the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
Anteroom of Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits
Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the Words inherits--
'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.'
Still the youthful hunter gathers
Fiery joy from wold and wood;
He will dare as dared his fathers
Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an orphan pleads in vain;
While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir of all the age's gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing;
While a moan from man is wrung;
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.

1849.

THE SANDS OF DEE

'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;'
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

'Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee.'

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.

Eversley, 1849.

THE TIDE ROCK

How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done. With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun, Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping. Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping. So many a wife for cruel man's caresses Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare.

Ilfracombe, 1849.

ELEGIACS

Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland; Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone. Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, ??de? ya???, Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife; No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether, But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold. Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er me-- What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame? Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them; Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within. Sing not, thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper. Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry. Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o'er the shell and the sea- weed; Sea-weed and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide. Just is the wave which uptore us; 'tis Nature's own law which condemns us; Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand! Joy to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts; Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone.

Morte Sands, Devonshire, February 1849.

DARTSIDE

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,
And a word doth speak this day.

'Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the colour of love and youth,
And brown of the fruitful clay.
Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,
And her bridal day shall come ere long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
And the whispering woodlands say.'

Drew's Teignton, Dartmoor, July 31, 1849.

MY HUNTING SONG

Forward! Hark forward's the cry! One more fence and we're out on the open, So to us at once, if you want to live near us! Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go, Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below! Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow, Find themselves staring alone.

So the great cause flashes by; Nearer and clearer its purposes open, While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us: Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-- We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-- Don't be left staring alone!

Eversley, 1849.

ALTON LOCKE'S SONG

Weep, weep, weep and weep, For pauper, dolt, and slave! Hark! from wasted moor and fen, Feverous alley, stifling den, Swells the wail of Saxon men-- Work! or the grave!

Down, down, down and down, With idler, knave, and tyrant! Why for sluggards cark and moil? He that will not live by toil Has no right on English soil! God's word's our warrant!

Up, up, up and up! Face your game and play it! The night is past, behold the sun! The idols fall, the lie is done! The Judge is set, the doom begun! Who shall stay it?

On Torridge, May 1849.

THE DAY OF THE LORD

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand: Its storms roll up the sky: The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold; All dreamers toss and sigh; The night is darkest before the morn; When the pain is sorest the child is born, And the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, angels of God-- Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth; Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old, Come down, and renew us her youth. Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love, Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, To the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell-- Famine, and Plague, and War; Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, Gather, and fall in the snare! Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, In the Day of the Lord at hand.

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, While the Lord of all ages is here? True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, And those who can suffer, can dare. Each old age of gold was an iron age too, And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, In the Day of the Lord at hand.

On the Torridge, Devonshire, September 10, 1849.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,
I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary--
'Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,
And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery.
How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again?
Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary
The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,
Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.'

Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere,
Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,
And a voice within cried--'Listen!--Christmas carols even here!
Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars and snows are singing.
Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through
With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing.
Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do,
Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.'

Eversley, 1849.

THE OUBIT {260}

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang, A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-- 'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings; I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.'

This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in: Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.

Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.

Eversley, 1851.

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Eversley, June 25, 1851.

SONNET

Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self! No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest Above the treasures of that perfect breast, Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars Through which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound-- O waste of nature!--to a craven hound; To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf; Athene to a Satyr: was that link Forged by The Father's hand? Man's reason bars The bans which God allowed.--Ay, so we think: Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest, Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great In martyrdom, than throned as Caesar's mate.

Eversley, 1851.

MARGARET TO DOLCINO

Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell Plainer what tears are now showing too well. Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, Weeping by thee.

Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow Pride from man's slander, and strength from my sorrow? Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide Weeping by thee.

Andernach on the Rhine, August 1851.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET

The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet wife:
No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet wife;
To its work in the morning gay.

Andernach, 1851.

THE UGLY PRINCESS

My parents bow, and lead them forth,
For all the crowd to see--
Ah well! the people might not care
To cheer a dwarf like me.

They little know how I could love,
How I could plan and toil,
To swell those drudges' scanty gains,
Their mites of rye and oil.

They little know what dreams have been
My playmates, night and day;
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
A mother's perfect sway.

Now earth to earth in convent walls,
To earth in churchyard sod:
I was not good enough for man,
And so am given to God.

Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.

SONNET

The baby sings not on its mother's breast; Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; Nor I by thine: but let us only part, Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, As having uttered all, must speak again-- O stunted thoughts! O chill and fettered rhyme Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, Losing its proper home, can find no rest: So, like a child who whiles away the time With dance and carol till the eventide, Watching its mother homeward through the glen; Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, Tells to his listening mate within the nest The wonder of his star-entranced heart Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill-- Forth all my being bubbles into song; And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.

Bertrich, 1851

THE SWAN-NECK

Evil sped the battle play On the Pope Calixtus' day; Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, In Senlac slept the sleep of swords. Harold Earl, shot over shield, Lay along the autumn weald; Slaughter such was never none Since the Ethelings England won. Thither Lady Githa came, Weeping sore for grief and shame; How may she her first-born tell? Frenchmen stript him where he fell, Gashed and marred his comely face; Who can know him in his place? Up and spake two brethren wise, 'Youngest hearts have keenest eyes; Bird which leaves its mother's nest, Moults its pinions, moults its crest. Let us call the Swan-neck here, She that was his leman dear; She shall know him in this stound; Foot of wolf, and scent of hound, Eye of hawk, and wing of dove, Carry woman to her love.' Up and spake the Swan-neck high, 'Go! to all your thanes let cry How I loved him best of all, I whom men his leman call; Better knew his body fair Than the mother which him bare. When ye lived in wealth and glee Then ye scorned to look on me; God hath brought the proud ones low After me afoot to go.' Rousing erne and sallow glede, Rousing gray wolf off his feed, Over franklin, earl, and thane, Heaps of mother-naked slain, Round the red field tracing slow, Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow; Never blushed nor turned away, Till she found him where he lay; Clipt him in her armes fair, Wrapt him in her yellow hair, Bore him from the battle-stead, Saw him laid in pall of lead, Took her to a minster high, For Earl Harold's soul to cry.

Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;
Jesu rest his soul for ever;
Angles all from thrall deliver;
Miserere Domine.

Eversley, 1851.

A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE

I heard an Eagle crying all alone Above the vineyards through the summer night, Among the skeletons of robber towers: Because the ancient eyrie of his race Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men; And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour, And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun For joy at their own riches:--So, I thought, The great devourers of the earth shall sit, Idle and impotent, they know not why, Down-staring from their barren height of state On nations grown too wise to slay and slave, The puppets of the few; while peaceful lore And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth, With wonders which they fear and hate, as he, The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.

On the Rhine, 1851.

THE LONGBEARDS' SAGA. A.D. 400

Over the camp-fires Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank, Warm in the snow trench: Sagamen heard I there, Men of the Longbeards, Cunning and ancient, Honey-sweet-voiced. Scaring the wolf cub, Scaring the horn-owl, Shaking the snow-wreaths Down from the pine-boughs, Up to the star roof Rang out their song. Singing how Winil men, Over the ice-floes Sledging from Scanland Came unto Scoring; Singing of Gambara, Freya's beloved, Mother of Ayo, Mother of Ibor. Singing of Wendel men, Ambri and Assi; How to the Winilfolk Went they with war-words,-- 'Few are ye, strangers, And many are we: Pay us now toll and fee, Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves: Else at the raven's meal Bide the sharp bill's doom.' Clutching the dwarfs work then, Clutching the bullock's shell, Girding gray iron on, Forth fared the Winils all, Fared the Alruna's sons, Ayo and Ibor. Mad at heart stalked they: Loud wept the women all, Loud the Alruna wife; Sore was their need. Out of the morning land, Over the snow-drifts, Beautiful Freya came, Tripping to Scoring. White were the moorlands, And frozen before her: Green were the moorlands, And blooming behind her. Out of her gold locks Shaking the spring flowers, Out of her garments Shaking the south wind, Around in the birches Awaking the throstles, And making chaste housewives all Long for their heroes home, Loving and love-giving, Came she to Scoring. Came unto Gambara, Wisest of Valas,-- 'Vala, why weepest thou? Far in the wide-blue, High up in the Elfin-home, Heard I thy weeping.' 'Stop not my weeping, Till one can fight seven. Sons have I, heroes tall, First in the sword-play; This day at the Wendels' hands Eagles must tear them. Their mothers, thrall-weary, Must grind for the Wendels.' Wept the Alruna wife; Kissed her fair Freya:-- 'Far off in the morning land, High in Valhalla, A window stands open; Its sill is the snow-peaks, Its posts are the waterspouts, Storm-rack its lintel; Gold cloud-flakes above Are piled for the roofing, Far up to the Elfin-home, High in the wide-blue. Smiles out each morning thence Odin Allfather; From under the cloud-eaves Smiles out on the heroes, Smiles on chaste housewives all, Smiles on the brood-mares, Smiles on the smiths' work: And theirs is the sword-luck, With them is the glory,-- So Odin hath sworn it,-- Who first in the morning Shall meet him and greet him.' Still the Alruna wept:-- 'Who then shall greet him? Women alone are here: Far on the moorlands Behind the war-lindens, In vain for the bill's doom Watch Winil heroes all, One against seven.' Sweetly the Queen laughed:-- 'Hear thou my counsel now; Take to thee cunning, Beloved of Freya. Take thou thy women-folk, Maidens and wives: Over your ankles Lace on the white war-hose; Over your bosoms Link up the hard mail-nets; Over your lips Plait long tresses with cunning;-- So war-beasts full-bearded King Odin shall deem you, When off the gray sea-beach At sunrise ye greet him.'

Night's son was driving His golden-haired horses up; Over the eastern firths High flashed their manes. Smiled from the cloud-eaves out Allfather Odin, Waiting the battle-sport: Freya stood by him. 'Who are these heroes tall,-- Lusty-limbed Longbeards? Over the swans' bath Why cry they to me? Bones should be crashing fast, Wolves should be full-fed, Where such, mad-hearted, Swing hands in the sword-play.'

Sweetly laughed Freya:-- 'A name thou hast given them, Shames neither thee nor them, Well can they wear it. Give them the victory, First have they greeted thee; Give them the victory, Yokefellow mine! Maidens and wives are these,-- Wives of the Winils; Few are their heroes And far on the war-road, So over the swans' bath They cry unto thee.'

Royally laughed he then; Dear was that craft to him, Odin Allfather, Shaking the clouds. 'Cunning are women all, Bold and importunate! Longbeards their name shall be, Ravens shall thank them: Where women are heroes, What must the men be? Theirs is the victory; No need of me!'

Eversley, 1852. From Hypatia.

SAINT MAURA. A.D. 304

Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! The guards are crouching underneath the rock; The lights are fading in the town below, Around the cottage which this morn was ours. Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone; Alone upon our crosses with our God; While all the angels watch us from the stars. Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord! Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb! Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, Never till now loved utterly! Oh say, Say you forgive me! No--you must not speak: You said it to me hours ago--long hours! Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes Speak to the people, call them home to God, A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church; And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, To show them that the Son of God endured For them--and me. Hush! I alone will speak, And while away the hours till dawn for you. I know you have forgiven me; as I lay Beneath your feet, while they were binding me, I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried 'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned, All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come! Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!' From that same moment all my pain was gone; And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled Love--love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall. I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark, Never, no never to look into mine; Never to watch me round the little room Singing about my work, or flash on me Looks bright with counsel.--Then they drove me mad With talk of nameless tortures waiting you-- And I could save you! You would hear your love-- They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then-- Then came a dream; to say one little word, One easy wicked word, we both might say, And no one hear us, but the lictors round; One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, And both, both free! And life had just begun-- Only three months--short months--your wedded wife Only three months within the cottage there-- Hoping I bore your child. . . . Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me! I am forgiven! . . . And then another dream; A flash--so quick, I could not bear the blaze; I could not see the smoke among the light-- To wander out through unknown lands, and lead You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayed From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, Mingled with fire and honey--you would wake, Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone For one short word?--ay, make it right, to save You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? And so--and so--alas! you knew the rest! You answered me. . . . Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words. You had done nobly had you struck me dead, Instead of striking me to life!--the temptress! . . . 'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!'-- 'The smell of death upon me?'--so it was! True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped, Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. There was but one right thing in the world to do; And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ! Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speak-- I could not speak for shame and misery, And terror of my sin, and of the things I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven! There we should meet, perhaps--and by that time I might be worthy of you once again-- Of you, and of my God. . . . So I went out. . . . . . . Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; Your love will feel it all again for me. No! it is over; and the woe that's dead Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love! Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry! To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, And they will give you water. One to-day, A soldier, gave me water in a sponge Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young! She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!' And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink. God bless him for it! So they led me back: And as I went, a voice was in my ears Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath And blaze of all the garden slopes below, And through the harvest-voices, and the moan Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, And round the shining rivers, and the peaks Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, And round the ancient stones about my feet. Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, 'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, While all the people made a ring around, And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly-- 'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?' 'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'-- I cried, and said beside--I know not what-- Words which I learnt from thee--I trust in God Nought fierce or rude--for was I not a girl Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? I thought of that. She might be there! I looked-- She was not there! I hid my face and wept. And when I looked again, the judge's eye Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought-- 'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!' I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young I am--a wife too--I am not my own, But his--my husband's!' But they took my shawl, And tore my tunic off, and there I stood Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still? Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon, And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed, While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!' And some mocked--ugly words: God shut my ears. And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes, Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame, Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow: And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew This body was not yours alone, but God's-- His loan--He needed it: and after that The worst was come, and any torture more A change--a lightening; and I did not shriek-- Once only--once, when first I felt the whip-- It coiled so keen around my side, and sent A fire-flash through my heart which choked me--then I shrieked--that once. The foolish echo rang So far and long--I prayed you might not hear. And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears Of humming bees around the limes at home; And I was all alone with you and God. And what they did to me I hardly know; I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, It was not after all so very sharp: So do not pity me. It made me pray; Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, And you in God: and once, when I looked down, And saw an ugly sight--so many wounds! 'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark; For them alone I kept these limbs so white-- A foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad, Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!' He did not know I was on fire within: Better he should not; so his sin was less. Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away, And crucify her by her husband's side!' And at those words a film came on my face-- A sickening rush of joy--was that the end? That my reward? I rose, and tried to go-- But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; And all the buildings melted into mist: So how they brought me here I cannot tell-- Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that for ever and for ever! Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch! One finger tip, to send the thrill through me I felt but yesterday!--No! I can wait:-- Another body!--Oh, new limbs are ready, Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, Kept for us in the treasuries of God. They will not mar the love they try to speak, They will not fail my soul, as these have done! . . . . . Will you hear more? Nay--you know all the rest: Yet those poor eyes--alas! they could not see My waking, when you hung above me there With hands outstretched to bless the penitent-- Your penitent--even like The Lord Himself-- I gloried in you!--like The Lord Himself! Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow To make you like Him--show you as you were! I told them so! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earth-- The throne of suffering, where the Son of God Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed; All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud-- You heard me! You know all! I am at peace. Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, And kept me happy, when they dragged me back From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, And bound my wrists and ankles--Do not sigh: I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, Nor will, till death comes! . . . Do I feel much pain? Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear. It has become like part of my own life, Or part of God's life in me--honour--bliss! I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you! Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now-- You said, one blessed night, they were too slender, Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife-- Perhaps a martyr's:--You forgot the strength Which God can give. The cord has cut them through; And yet my voice has never faltered yet. Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray That you may die: and you must not die yet. Not yet--they told us we might live three days . . . Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak Words which may wake the dead! . . . . . Hush! is he sleeping? They say that men have slept upon the cross; So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe: And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!--save Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth Years hence--poor things, they know not what they do!-- And crown him martyr; and his name will ring Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see His triumph--Preacher! Martyr!--Ah--and me?-- If they must couple my poor name with his, Let them tell all the truth--say how I loved him, And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord! Returning good for evil! and was this The payment I deserved for such a sin? To hang here on my cross, and look at him Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!

Eversley, 1852.

ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL {282}

So die, thou child of stormy dawn, Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse; Chilled early by the bigot's curse, The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn.

Fair death, to fall in teeming June, When every seed which drops to earth Takes root, and wins a second birth From steaming shower and gleaming moon.

Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain; Thou rain of God, make fat the land; That roots which parch in burning sand May bud to flower and fruit again.

To grace, perchance, a fairer morn In mightier lands beyond the sea, While honour falls to such as we From hearts of heroes yet unborn,

Who in the light of fuller day, Of purer science, holier laws, Bless us, faint heralds of their cause, Dim beacons of their glorious way.

Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil Round cape and isle, in port and cove, Resistless, star-led from above: What though our tiny wave recoil?

Eversley, 1852.

DOWN TO THE MOTHERS

Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral; Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them. Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations, Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure, Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains. Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood, Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory. New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience-- Free in the sunshine of Godhead--and fearlessly smile on his Father. Down to the mothers I go--yet with thee still!--be with me, thou purest! Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us.

Eversley, 1852.

TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF 'OUR VILLAGE'

The single eye, the daughter of the light; Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright. The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright In classic depth and clearness, and repaid By thanks and honour from the wise and staid-- By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight, And high communion with the eloquent throng Of those who purified our speech and song-- All these are yours. The same examples lure, You in each woodland, me on breezy moor-- With kindred aim the same sweet path along, To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.

Eversley, 1853.

BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER

It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She looked across the sea;
She looked across the water;
And long and loud laughed she:
'The locks of six princesses
Must be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who comes a wooing me?'

It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She walked along the sand;
When she was aware of a knight so fair,
Came sailing to the land.
His sails were all of velvet,
His mast of beaten gold,
And 'Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who saileth here so bold?'

'The locks of five princesses
I won beyond the sea;
I clipt their golden tresses,
To fringe a cloak for thee.
One handful yet is wanting,
But one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Furl up thy velvet sail!'

He leapt into the water,
That rover young and bold;
He gript Earl Haldan's daughter,
He clipt her locks of gold:
'Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
The tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Sail Westward ho! away!'

Devonshire, 1854
From Westward Ho!

FRANK LEIGH'S SONG. A.D. 1586