Chapter XIII

Few blows I get, some hay, and of water many a draught: I tell you he's no coster that sits upon my shaft! And for the knacker's yard--that's not my destined bed: No donkey ever yet saw himself there lying dead.

_ROOM TO ROAM_.

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam? Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.

_COTTAGE SONGS_.

I.--BY THE CRADLE.

Close her eyes: she must not peep! Let her little puds go slack; Slide away far into sleep: Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door, Waiting till the kettle sings; When the kettle's song is o'er She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay In the meadow by the brook, Not so very far away-- Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere-- Sees the scythe glitter and rip; Watches baby gone somewhere; Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright:
Mother's sitting just behind:
Father's only out of sight;
God is round us like the wind.

II.--SWEEPING THE FLOOR.

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor,
Sweep the dust, pick up the pin;
Make it clean from fire to door,
Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping,
Looking, sweeping with a broom,
All the time that we are sleeping,
For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory,
Walking far above the birds?
Or did parson make the story
For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling
I would hearken through the gloom;
Roll out fast, and fall down willing
Right before the sweeping broom!

III.--WASHING THE CLOTHES.

This is the way we wash the clo'es
Free from dirt and smoke and clay!
Through and through the water flows,
Carries Ugly right away!

This is the way we bleach the clo'es:
Lay them out upon the green;
Through and through the sunshine goes,
Makes them white as well as clean!

This is the way we dry the clo'es:
Hang them on the bushes about;
Through and through the soft wind blows,
Draws and drives the wetness out!

Water, sun, and windy air
Make the clothes clean, white, and sweet
Lay them now in lavender
For the Sunday, folded neat!

IV.--DRAWING WATER.

Dark, as if it would not tell,
Lies the water, still and cool:
Dip the bucket in the well,
Lift it from the precious pool!

Up it comes all brown and dim,
Telling of the twilight sweet:
As it rises to the brim
See the sun and water meet!

See the friends each other hail!
"Here you are!" cries Master Sun;
Mistress Water from the pail
Flashes back, alive with fun!

Have you not a tale to tell,
Water, as I take you home?
Tell me of the hidden well
Whence you, first of all, did come.

Of it you have kept some flavour
Through long paths of darkling strife:
Water all has still a savour
Of the primal well of life!

Could you show the lovely way
Back and up through sea and sky
To that well? Oh, happy day,
I would drink, and never die!

Jesus sits there on its brink
All the world's great thirst to slake,
Offering every one to drink
Who will only come and take!

Lord of wells and waters all,
Lord of rains and dewy beads,
Unto thee my thirst doth call
For the thing thou know'st it needs!

Come home, water sweet and cool,
Gift of God thou always art!
Spring up, Well more beautiful,
Rise in mine straight from his heart.

V.--CLEANING THE WINDOWS.

Wash the window; rub it dry;
Make the ray-door clean and bright:
He who lords it in the sky
Loves on cottage floors to light!

Looking over sea and beck,
Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom,
He can spy the smallest speck
Anywhere about the room!

See how bright his torch is blazing
In the heart of mother's store!
Strange! I never saw him gazing
So into that press before!

Ah, I see!--the wooden pane
In the window, dull and dead,
Father called its loss a gain,
And a glass one put instead!

What a difference it makes!
How it melts the filmy gloom!
What a little more it takes
Much to brighten up a room!

There I spy a dusty streak!
There a corner not quite clean!
There a cobweb! There the sneak
Of a spider, watching keen!

Lord of suns, and eyes that see,
Shine into me, see and show;
Leave no darksome spot in me
Where thou dost not shining go.

Fill my spirit full of eyes,
Doors of light in every part;
Open windows to the skies
That no moth corrupt my heart.

_THE WIND AND THE MOON_.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out!
You stare
In the air
As if crying _Beware_,
Always looking what I am about:
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"

He turned in his bed: she was there again!
On high
In the sky
With her one ghost-eye
The Moon shone white and alive and plain:
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim.
"With my sledge
And my wedge
I have knocked off her edge!
I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim,
And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Larger and nearer the shy stars shone:
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down
And in town,
A merry-mad clown,
He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar--
When there was that glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain,
For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew
The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night,
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,
In good faith,
I blew her to death!--
First blew her away right out of the sky,
Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair;
For, high
In the sky
With her one white eye,
Motionless miles above the air,
She never had heard the great Wind blare.

_THE FOOLISH HAREBELL_.

A harebell hung her wilful head: "I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."

She hung her head in the mossy dell: "If all were over, then all were well!"

The Wind he heard, and was pitiful, And waved her about to make her cool.

"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell; "Leave me alone--I am not well."

The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame, Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.

"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"

Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case, And drew a thick veil over his face.

"Cloud go away, and don't be rude," She said; "I do not see why you should!"

The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint!--and no water beside!"

The Dew came down its millionfold path: She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"

The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept; The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.

A boy ran past in the morning gray, Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.

The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh! I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."

The Wind blew gently, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said. He shone; but lower she drooped her head.

"O Rain, I am withering! all the blue Is fading out of me!--come, please do!"

The Rain came down as fast as he could, But for all his good will he could do her no good.

She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!

_SONG_.

I was very cold In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold-- Alas, we were grown old, Love and I together! Oh, but I was cold In the summer weather!

Sudden I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen: "Truly, scorn did harm her!" I said, and I grew warmer; "Better men the charmer Knows at least a dozen!" I said, and I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen.

Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover; And my heart at rest Lies in the spring's young nest: My love she loves me best, And the frost is over! Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover!

_AN IMPROVISATION_.

The stars cleave the sky.
Yet for us they rest,
And their race-course high
Is a shining nest!

The hours hurry on.
But where is thy flight,
Soft pavilion
Of motionless night?

Earth gives up her trees
To the holy air;
They live in the breeze;
They are saints at prayer!

Summer night, come from God,
On your beauty, I see,
A still wave has flowed
Of eternity!

_EQUITY_.

No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven, And holds the righteous balance always even; No heart can true response to love afford Wherein from one to eight not every chord Is yet attuned by the spirits seven: For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord Is throned in equity above high heaven.

Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored, And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven, Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven, Thy rights in love thy God will see restored: No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven.

_CONTRITION_.

Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story, Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!-- Out of the gulf into the glory, Lift me, and save my story.

I have done many things merely shameful; I am a man ashamed, my father! My life is ashamed and broken and blameful-- The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather! Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful! To my judge I flee with my blameful.

Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity, Think what it is, not to be pure! Strong in thy love's essential security, Think upon those who are never secure. Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security.

O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching! Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking, Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful? Sick of my past, of my own self aching-- Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.

Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel, Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle, Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour! Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel! In the dust of thy glory I nestle.

_THE CONSOLER_: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S _Christus Consolator_.

I.

What human form is this? what form divine? And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers shine? Saviour, who does not know it to be thine? Who does not long to fill a gazer's place? And yet there is no time, there is no space To keep away thy servants from thy shrine! Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs. Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng! From that low attitude of love not cease! In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other shield from wrong. But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long-- For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase-- But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release. We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin! But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there-- Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!