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Cornell University Library 
 PR 4759.H386ST5 
 
 Throughout the year; poems old and new, by 
 3 1924 013 480 300 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013480300 
 
THROUGHOUT THE YEAR. 
 
 Poems Old and New. 
 
 BY 
 
 GUY ROSLYNt,,x..A , 
 
 London : 
 W. B. WHITTINGHAM & CO., 
 
 91, Gracechurch Street, E.G. 
 
 1886. 
 
, W. B. WHITTINGHAM & CO., 
 
 PRINTERS, _, 
 
 91, GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON,' 
 
 AND 
 
 " THE CHARTERHOUSE PRESS," 
 
 44, CHARTERHOUSE SQUARE, E.G. 
 
SOME OF THE FOLLOWING POEMS HAVE APPEARED 
 IN— ALL THE YEAR ROUND, BELGRAVIA, CASSELL's 
 
 MAGAZINE, Chambers's journal, colburn's new 
 
 MONTHLY, THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, THE GRAPHIC, 
 
 ST. James's magazine, leisure hour, london 
 
 SOCIETY, ONCE A WEEK, THE PICTORIAL WORLD, 
 THE QUIVER, TINSLEY's MAGAZINE, TEMPLE BAR, 
 THE VICTORIA MAGAZINE, WARNE's INTERNATIONAL 
 ANNUAL, AND OTHER PUBLICATIONS. 
 
TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 When Wheat is Green i 
 
 From Winter to Spring 3 
 
 A Night in March 4 
 
 Old Bells ... . . . . 5 
 
 Two Names on a Tree 7 
 
 An Old Village . . . . . g 
 
 An April Daisy . . 12 
 
 A Star of Hope . . ... 14 
 
 New Days 16 
 
 The Wind in the City . ... 17 
 
 Songs of Spring . 19 
 
 Hope and Faith ... . . 20 
 
 Messengers in May . . . . 22 
 
 Looking for Love ... .24 
 
 A May Song ... . . . . 26 
 
 Dusk . . 27 
 
 I Love you Best 28 
 
 Blossoming . ... .30 
 
 Do Not Forget .... ... 32 
 
 Spring . .... .34 
 
 Above Douglas Bay . 35 
 
 In Eden . 38 
 
 An Invitation . -39 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 True Words, 41 
 
 Evening ... 43 
 
 The Pilot's Girl . . 44 
 
 The Question ... . . 46 
 
 In a Meadow 48 
 
 A Day in June . . . . ■ -49 
 
 Sunday Morning . ... 51 
 
 Under a Tree ... -53 
 
 Birds in the Wood .... . . 55 
 
 Summer Eves . ... 57 
 
 Summer of Content . .... 59 
 
 Old Love and New . . .61 
 
 The Silent Thrush .... 63 
 
 Birds ... . 66 
 
 The Signal 68 
 
 Mary .... ... . 70 
 
 A Rest by the Way . ... 72 
 
 A Dkeam of a Dream 74 
 
 Totter Bells ... 76 
 
 Betrothal ... .78 
 
 In the Cool of the Day ... . 80 
 
 Marriage Morn . . ... .82 
 
 While the Sun Goes Down 84 
 
 Aftermath . . 86 
 
 Jilted . 87 
 
 The Last Days of Summer . . 89 
 Watching for Sails . . , . ,91 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 A Quiet Night 93 
 
 A Season-Ring . 95 
 
 Waiting 97 
 
 Autumn Voices 99 
 
 In the Bay .... .... 100 
 
 Ax THE Fifth Act J03 
 
 By the Orchard Wall 106 
 
 An Old Picture 108 
 
 Changing Pictures . . . no 
 
 RuiHED 113 
 
 Waiting for Escort . . ... 113 
 Summer's Wraith . . . .119 
 
 Autumn Rain . .... 121 
 
 Waiting for Winter 123 
 
 Not for Love . 125 
 
 Bridal Bells . 127 
 
 When the Wind Blows 129 
 
 The Bretby Bells . . .... 131 
 
 Winter Weather 135 
 
 A Beggar Man . 136 
 
 A Winter Night . . 138 
 
 Abel Kare . . I39 
 
 Sigh not So ... 142 
 The Coming of the Snow . . .144 
 
 Burnt Wings . • 146 
 
 Poverty's Winter 148 
 
 Je Vous Adore . ■ • i49 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The First Snowfall . . ... 151 
 
 Dead Days 153 
 
 Winter Walks . . ... 155 
 
 My Lady's Favours ... . 156 
 
 On the Hill 158 
 
 Enchanted Embers 159 
 
 Bv the Hearth . . ... 163 
 
 How Long? . 165 
 
 A White Wood . . . . 167 
 The Garden Seat . . .169 
 
 A December Daisy 171 
 
 Pictures on the Panes ... ... 174 
 
 Simplicity . . . . . .176 
 
 While the Snow Falls 178 
 
 The Lady of Black FR'ars 181 
 
 We Will Hold Our Own 185 
 
 Chastelard to Mary Stuart 187 
 
 The Free Sword 191 
 
 Written in Blood 193 
 
 Love's Harvest 195 
 
 The Better Christmas 197 
 
 Zephadee . . . . • 200 
 
 WiLDERMERE 207 
 
 Edgar .... 213 
 
THROUGHOUT THE YEAR. 
 
 — ^e*«- 
 
 WHEN WHEAT IS GREEN. 
 
 When wheat is green in furrowed fields, 
 And forest lanes are lined with leaves. 
 
 And passion unto pleading yields. 
 And ev'ry mateless maiden grieves 
 
 For lack of love — at such a time 
 
 My pleasure will be in its prime. 
 
 The clouds that keep away the sun, 
 And cover up the moon at night. 
 
 Before the strong March wind will run. 
 And leave the heavens blue and bright ; 
 
 The sun will shine upon the sea — 
 
 The moon will light the wood for me, 
 
 B 
 
WHEN WHEAT IS GREEN. 
 
 And then, ah then ! O dearest days ! 
 
 Laburnum branches, thick with bloom, 
 Will throw their gold on garden ways, 
 
 And kiss the windows of my room ; 
 And then the day ! How will it be 
 To live in such felicity ? 
 
 My brow with blossoms will be bound. 
 And from my fears I shall be free : 
 
 O tardy Time, bring quickly round 
 The merriest month of all for me ! 
 
 That I may hear the church boys sing, 
 
 And on my finger see the ring ! 
 
FROM WINTER TO SPRING. 
 
 I. 
 
 At last the baffled snow slips from the roof, 
 Before the mild persisting of the rain ; 
 
 And in the east, keeping all doubt aloof. 
 Are streaks of spring-foretelling gold again. 
 
 And soon warm-coming winds will swing the gull. 
 And sway the old boat gently in the bay ; 
 
 And once again the great trees will be full 
 
 Of leaves and birds, to charm the length'ning 
 day. 
 
 II. 
 
 After the winter snow, 
 
 After the joyless days, 
 Green things in hedges grow, 
 And kingcups blow 
 
 In old familiar ways, 
 After the winter snow. 
 
 After the dreary days, 
 
 After the sleety rain, 
 Hope walks about our ways. 
 With cheering lays. 
 
 And bids us smile again 
 After the dreary days. 
 
 B 2 
 
A NIGHT IN MARCH. 
 
 In this March night 
 Grey Winter murmurs in the gloom, 
 With sad foreknovvledge of his doom : 
 His robes are draggled through the land — 
 The sceptre withers in his hand ; 
 And from the west the strong young Spring 
 Flies hitherward on coloured wing. 
 
 This mild March night 
 The crocus pushes through the sod — 
 The golden miracle of God ! 
 And sap in old trees, damp and drear. 
 Makes song we are too gross to hear, 
 To thrill the branches into green. 
 Wherein young birds will sing unseen. 
 
OLD BELLS. 
 
 After years of city toil I hear the village bells ; 
 They sing a new song while the old song in my 
 
 mem'ry dwells — 
 A strange new song, with strange new words that 
 
 many sorrows bring ; 
 O would that I could hear again the song they 
 
 used to sing 
 When I was young, and love was young, and the 
 
 green sod's daisy stud 
 Was a sweet new thing that won the heart, and 
 
 hope was in the bud ! 
 Ring on, old bells ! sirig on, sweet bells ! ring on ! 
 
 for now I hear 
 The echo of lost melodies, and distant days seem 
 
 near. 
 
 Day is dying, the lake has lost the light of after- 
 noon ; 
 
 Stars shine, and waters shimmer round the shadow 
 of the moon : 
 
Missing Page 
 
TWO NAMES ON A TREE. 
 
 I knew not anything of gloom, 
 I scarce could happier be ; 
 
 But autumn came, and came again. 
 And changed to winter strife, 
 
 And I have drunk the last sweet drain 
 From out the cup of life. 
 
 I tried to think him in the right, 
 
 But scorn came up instead — 
 How should I know that in the fight 
 
 My love had long been dead ? 
 And now, alas ! I can but plead 
 
 That strength may come to me, 
 That I may only once more read 
 
 The two names on the tree. 
 
AN OLD VILLAGE. 
 
 Old village, what potent league have you made 
 
 With Time and with Progress that you are free 
 From the show of change, and are still arrayed 
 
 In the dress of an ancient century ? 
 Where is, snorting Steam with his busy wheels ? 
 
 He mixes no note with your singing stream : 
 You are as fair as a vision that steals 
 
 From Memory's house in a pleasant dream. 
 
 Under the hill is the lordly demesne. 
 
 And amidst the great trees the old spires rear ; 
 And the thick manor walls are high, and green 
 
 With the growth of many a peaceful year : 
 There lord after lord has ruled in his pride, 
 
 At banquets attended by clown and page, 
 To honour a daughter robed as a bride, 
 
 Or a son and heir at the coming of age. 
 
 The village shoemaker sits with his thread, 
 And thinks and thinks with a serious look ; 
 
 There may be a half-made rhyme in his head. 
 For he works all day near a singing brook ; 
 
AN OLD VILLAGE. 
 
 Or he may be deep in affairs of State, 
 Reheairsing a cry for a new crusade ; 
 
 Or affairs of love, and the unkind fate — 
 Of a ring that for him was never made. 
 
 How idly goes the cottage smoke aloof 
 
 In thin blue wreaths that strive to kiss cool 
 leaves. 
 And throw their shadows on the sunny roof, 
 
 Where stately pigeons strut about the eaves 
 And watch the curled-up cat upon the wall, 
 
 And wonder if she be indeed asleep ; 
 Or look into the garden ground, where all 
 
 The sweet old-fashioned flow'rs grow in a heap. 
 
 How many things around are fair to see ! 
 
 How many voices that are sweet to hear ! 
 How many customs quaint and old there be, 
 
 For grave observance through the quiet year ! 
 Here weather-saws, that have some truth, are told. 
 
 To guide the men who work upon the farm ; 
 And signs are sought foretelling heat or cold. 
 
 And what will prosper and what come to harm. 
 
AN OLD VILLAGE. 
 
 Here is a green, with seats around great trees, 
 
 Where th' old folk sat when they were girls and 
 boys; 
 And where at evening they still take their ease, 
 
 Rememb'ring in their children youthful joys ; 
 Passing this way men may forget their grief, 
 
 For who could here let thoughts run into gloom ? 
 With every little straggling lane in leaf? 
 
 And every little cottage porch in bloom ? 
 
AN APRIL DAISY. 
 
 White daisy in the growing grass, 
 Now I have lost my winter fear — 
 Pure promise of the budding year, 
 
 And pleasures that shall come to pass. 
 
 Of summer and the sun you speak, 
 Of childhood with its healthy cheek. 
 Red-ripening lips and sweet glad eyes. 
 Where truest love untainted lies, 
 Where beauty laughs, and passion shows 
 Its colour like an opening rose. 
 
 Pink-lidded harbinger of spring ! 
 You tell of swallows on the wing — 
 Swallows that are ever roaming, 
 Sailing, sinking in the gloaming, 
 And dipping in the silver stream. 
 Upon whose banks young lovers dream 
 In dim seclusion ; where the beech 
 Bends over with a graceful reach 
 
AN APRIL DAISY. 13 
 
 Unto the water's shelving brim ; 
 "Where swarms of shining minnows swim, 
 And gUde among tall taper reeds, 
 And under waving folds of weeds. 
 You speak of blue-bells in the wood. 
 Of fruitfulness and fairyhood. 
 The lady smocks with faint blush stain 
 Shall line the brown paths of the lane ; 
 The butterflies and spring-time noise 
 Shall bless the hearts of merry boys, 
 And western winds shall smooth the curls 
 That shade the eyes of happy girls. 
 
 Gold-crested herald of the spring ! 
 You tell of blackbirds that shall sing 
 In secret plots of freshened gi^een ; 
 Of walks in evening dusk, between 
 The sinking sun and rising moon. 
 When trees are full of leaves in June. 
 
 White daisy in the growing grass. 
 Now I have lost my winter fear — 
 Pure promise of the budding year. 
 
 And pleasures that shall come to pass. 
 
A STAR OF HOPE. 
 
 A STAR above the steeple-top, 
 
 In twilight but a feeble spark, 
 Is hanging as the shadows drop, 
 
 And brighter burns as comes the dark. 
 
 Let not your courage from you go 
 When common troubles drag you down ; 
 
 Your face that now is white for woe, 
 With sunny joy may yet be brown. 
 
 Be pure in heart, in peace or pain ; 
 
 Obey the still small voice that calls : 
 The star above the steeple-vane 
 
 Shines stronger as the darkness falls. 
 
 Hope, like a diamond in the coal, 
 Shall shine, however black the night : 
 
 Keep well your eyes unto the goal, 
 And do not tire, but trust and fight. 
 
A STAR OF HOPE. 15 
 
 Because the path has led your feet 
 To places bleak and bare with blight, 
 
 Seek not for safety in retreat ; 
 
 Still forward go and look for light. 
 
 And if in vain you seek a ray 
 
 Of sun to break the clouds of sorrow, 
 
 Still fight it out — work well to-day, 
 And do not fear about to-morrow. 
 
NEW DAYS. 
 
 O FRESH and fair young leaves of spring ! 
 What shall I do but weep or sing ? 
 In gratitude for brighter life, 
 You promise after winter strife ; 
 And for all pleasures that you bring, 
 O fair and fresh young leaves of spring ! 
 
 new and sweet birds of the spring ! 
 
 That through the long warm days will sing ; 
 
 1 would that you could know how dear 
 You are to me that give you fear — 
 Could know my thanks for joys you bring, 
 O sweet and new birds of the spring ! 
 
 gentle spirit of the spring ! 
 Breathing in each new living thing ; 
 
 1 would that I to thee might raise 
 In thankfulness some iitting praise ; 
 But for all blessings that you bring 
 My words are weak, O gentle Spring ! 
 
THE WIND IN THE CITY. 
 
 The wind is in the city ; he is come from the 
 
 wintry main, 
 To wrestle with stony, steeples, and to make us 
 
 think again 
 Of some we love who have gone down to the 
 
 mighty sea in ships. 
 And whose cheeks a little while ago were lifted to 
 
 our lips ; 
 O may they all be safely steered from the hidden 
 
 granite's grips ! 
 
 The lamps along the gusty streets flicker in fear 
 
 and sputter ; 
 And men are caught at the corners and pushed 
 
 into the gutter ; 
 Tiles are wrenched away from the roofs, and -about 
 
 their heads are thrown, 
 And out of every passage comes a mysterious 
 
 moan; 
 And the alehouse signboards squeak on their rusty 
 
 hinges and groan. 
 
 c 
 
THE WIND IN THE CITY. 
 
 The bells that strike the hour seem near, and 
 
 then they seem far away ; 
 The wind is blowing about the noise, and all 
 
 sounds are astray ; 
 They cling to roofs, like restless ghosts, and then 
 
 rush to the river, 
 Where waters under doubtful lights about the 
 
 barges quiver. 
 And 'neath the great storm's flapping wings the 
 
 bridges rock and shiver. 
 
 The wind has turned from his anger to sing a 
 
 song of pity, 
 As he leaves the streets and spires of the 
 
 startled, shaken city ; 
 In a little while he is far off, and quiet as a rill 
 That runs below tall sheltering trees around a 
 
 forest hill ; 
 And ev'ry little cottage now below the stars is 
 
 still. 
 
SONGS OF SPRING. 
 
 When will the songs be old that tell of spring ? 
 Of buttercups that blow and birds that sing ? 
 Ah, never may my losses or my gains 
 Make common things to me of fields and lanes ! 
 
 When I behold the springtime sunbeams fall, 
 And light. the chilly moss upon the wall, 
 May I be moved to think of hedges green — 
 Of lilac with laburnum boughs between : 
 
 Of clouds in starlight and of changing moons — 
 
 Of shiny, breezy morns and idle noons — 
 
 Of paths o'ergrown, where stray wind sing to 
 
 streams 
 The sweet songs of our j^oungest, dearest dreams. 
 
 Now I remember many a pleasant rhyme, 
 Born of the joy that comes in budding time ; 
 And made for love in simple days of ease. 
 When mortals had more leisure for the trees. 
 
 When will the songs be old that always brings 
 In wildest days, some music of the spring ; 
 And make us smile to think what will be soon. 
 When garden roses breathe below the moon ? 
 
 c 2 
 
HOPE AND FAITH. 
 
 In spring I went into the wood, 
 
 And smiling Hope before me stood ; 
 
 She sang to me for one long morn 
 
 Of present love and joys unborn : 
 
 It was an easy, pleasant thing 
 
 To walk the wood with Hope in spring. 
 
 The wood in winter was not fair ; 
 I walked therein ; Hope was not there ; 
 At length I called upon her name, 
 And looked around, but no one came : 
 Then darkness came with chilling rain, 
 And for the path I groped in vain. 
 
 For hours I felt about the trees, 
 Until I sank upon my knees, 
 For I was weak and did not know 
 What thing to think, which way to go ; 
 And then I saw a strange light shine. 
 And some one's hand took hold of mine. 
 
HOPE AND FAITH. 
 
 Then I was guided to the town, 
 
 And on my knees again went down 
 
 For thanks, " Dear Hope, what shall I say 
 
 For bringing me into the way ?" 
 
 Then, with a gentle voice, she saith, 
 
 " I am not Hope; my name is Faith." 
 
MESSENGERS IN MAY. 
 
 Again we have the young Spring, 
 When Hnnets sing and larks sing. 
 Many timid flowers are seen 
 Shud'ring in the new chill green. 
 Hearts be merry ! Winter sorrow 
 Shall be dead upon the morrow. 
 
 The sun show'rs, and the colour'd bow 
 Of promise, and the stars also. 
 The green sea, and the yellow sand, 
 The moving leaves, the painted land. 
 Will give new life, and Hope's sweet wine 
 That makes a mortal half divine. 
 Day is conquering the night. 
 And blossom covering the blight. 
 
 Many poets gone away 
 Have sung of Spring's delicious day ; 
 And many poets will sing again 
 Of gardens after summer rain — 
 
MESSENGERS IN MAY. 23 
 
 Of water in the noonday blaze, 
 Of early morning's faery haze, 
 Of evening when the swallows fly 
 Under misty-coloured sky, 
 Over brooks where pinkies swim 
 Round the water lily's rim. 
 
 Now the spring-time is a-coming 
 With its ditty, drone, and humming ; 
 With the nightingale and thrush, 
 And the perfume of the bush ; 
 With the moth and burnish'd bees. 
 And the music of the trees ; 
 And with happiest, merriest din, 
 Spring-time is a-coming in. 
 
LOOKING FOR LOVE. 
 
 As a fisherman looks out over the bay 
 For a ship that comes from sea, 
 
 I look for my love from day to day, 
 But my love comes not to me. 
 
 Who is the maid that the finger of fate 
 Has given, and where lives she ? 
 
 How long shall I linger, and hope, and wait. 
 Before she will come to me ? 
 
 Or have I no love, and shall I be blown 
 
 Like a lost boat out to sea ? 
 No, pleasure and peace shall be my own. 
 
 And my love shall come to me. 
 
 And when and where shall I know my sweet doom, 
 
 Indoors or where flowers grow ? 
 Will the pear trees all be white with bloom. 
 
 Or will they be white with snow ? 
 
LOOKING FOR LOVE. ' 25 
 
 Have I ever heard of your name in talk ? 
 
 Or seen you a child at play ? 
 Are you fair, my love, and where do you walk ? 
 
 Is it near or far away ? 
 
 Come, my love, while my heart is in the south. 
 
 While youth is about my ways — 
 I will run to meet you and kiss your mouth. 
 
 And bless you for all my days. 
 
A MAY SONG. 
 
 May, May, white May- 
 Through the village spread ; 
 
 Come and make a garland 
 Of white May and red. 
 
 May, May, sweet May, 
 
 All about the green, 
 All about the maypole. 
 
 All about the queen. 
 
 May, May, red May 
 
 All the lads do wear ; 
 With whitest of the white May, 
 
 Lasses trim their hair. 
 
 May, May, musk May 
 
 Growing in the lane ; 
 What is half as sweet as May 
 
 Washed with morning rain ? 
 
 Red May and white May 
 Through the village spread ; 
 
 Come and make a garland 
 Of white May and red. 
 
DUSK. 
 
 The misty moth-time is begun ; 
 
 Trees stand like shadows in the lanes, 
 Birds sing their farewells to the sun, 
 
 And candles shine through cottage panes : 
 And now the west glow softly wanes, 
 
 And crickets about houses run ; 
 The sky is losing all its stains — 
 
 The night comes on, and day is done. 
 
 Repose will ease the workman's pains, 
 
 And speak to him of sleep well won : 
 He walks in peace along the lanes, 
 
 That have new scent now rain is done ; 
 Stars come to full light one by one, 
 
 Between wet leaves along the lanes ; 
 He sees them as he walks, but none 
 
 Cheer him like light through cottage panes. 
 
I LOVE YOU BEST. 
 
 Your face, the fairest I have seen, 
 
 Is now a part of hfe to me : 
 It smiles down sorrows that have been, 
 
 And speaks of pleasures that may be ; 
 But though you have my heart in thrall, 
 
 I cannot meet you like the rest, 
 And yet I know, above them all, 
 
 I love you best. 
 
 Your life, the truest I have known, 
 
 Not very sad nor very gay. 
 Has given guidance to my own, 
 
 That might apart have gone astray ; 
 So much of good has come to me 
 
 From you that I would now be blest— 
 Am I unworthy ? Am I free 
 
 To love you best ? 
 
 I cannot flatter in your sight. 
 Nor boldly speak as others do ; 
 
 But I could suffer, or could fight, 
 Or forfeit life for love of you : 
 
/ LOVE YOU BEST. 29 
 
 Or I could toil for all my days 
 
 To shield you from the world's unrest, 
 And prove to you, in simple ways, 
 I love you best. 
 
 Now hopes and fears within me fight. 
 
 As I await the deepest woe, 
 Or else the richest of delight 
 
 That any youth or man may know ; 
 Soon happiness my heart must fill, 
 
 Or I must turn from peace and rest. 
 To live a life alone, and still 
 
 To love you best. 
 
BLOSSOMING. 
 
 When early blossoms dot the dell 
 With gold and white of crimson lip, 
 
 And hedges, bright with many a bell, 
 Green tassels in the water dip. 
 
 Young love is strong, and who can tell 
 
 The joy of lovers loving well ? 
 
 When Spring drops jewels in the lake, 
 And sticks around it stem and stalk. 
 
 And kingcups glimmer in the brake. 
 And blackbirds to each other talk ; 
 
 True pleasure is a lover's meed, 
 
 And love in truth is love indeed. 
 
 The fairest day-shine is begun. 
 
 The coloured tide of song and scent. 
 
 The joyous coming of the sun, 
 The time of forest merriment, 
 
 When laughter of the birds and trees 
 
 Will set a lover's heart at ease. 
 
BLOSSOMING. 31 
 
 In the lane the cowsHp swells, 
 
 Boughs are amorous of the streams. 
 
 Under branching lilac bells 
 
 Lovers dream the old, old dreams ; 
 
 Fairies move the leaves above, 
 
 Life were nothing without love. 
 
DO NOT FORGET. 
 
 'Tis strange to think you go in one short day, 
 
 And that I may not know you any more ; 
 Why should I fear to look at you and say 
 
 My life can not be as it was before ? 
 When you return to dear friends you have met 
 
 About your city home where you must dwell, 
 
 Do not forget 
 
 That some dull villagepeople love you well. 
 
 We all have been the better for your face 
 
 And for your merry heart. What shall we do 
 
 To raise a smile when you have left the place ? 
 My mother will be sad and father too. 
 
 When you have gone away to be the pet 
 
 Of " home sweet home " again, I wonder 
 
 whether 
 
 You will forget 
 
 That we have sometimes walked and talked to- 
 gether ? 
 
DO NOT FORGET. 33 
 
 This is the second Sabbath and the last 
 
 That I may sit by you and say these things, 
 And then some clouds will come to overcast 
 
 My happy sky with dark unfriendly wings ; 
 But there will be a comfort with me yet 
 
 If I may know that you, in busy ways, 
 
 Will not forget 
 
 A cousin and a week of sunny days. 
 
 The village folk are coming, one by one. 
 
 Across the fields from church ; a little while, 
 And then this Summer Sunday will be done, 
 
 And I shall grow down-hearted at your smile ; 
 If you should ever think of my regret, 
 
 And what my life out here alone must be, 
 ^ Do not forget 
 
 The two names cut upon the apple tree. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Tis Spring ! New leaves have come and fields are 
 bright ; 
 
 Birds chirrup on the roof at blush of dawn ; 
 Young butterflies and bees have taken flight, 
 
 And crocus buds are peeping through the lawn. 
 
 'Tis Spring ! The leaves are green, and rabbits run 
 In pastures full of daisies, gold and white ; 
 
 Brooks shine like silken ribbands in the sun. 
 And babble through the woodlands with delight, 
 
 'Tis Spring ! The school-boy by the river side 
 Holds out his fishing rod with anxious look ; 
 
 He sees the minnows 'mongst the cresses glide. 
 And fears to breathe when they come nigh his 
 hook. 
 
 'Tis Spring ! The linnet trills and cuckoos whoot 
 From secret woody nooks at close of day ; 
 
 When work is done the milk-boy blows his flute 
 Under the hedge, where merry children play. 
 
 'Tis Spring ! 'Tis Spring ! O all ye birds that sing^ 
 
 Give out your sweetest strains in praise of Spring I 
 
ABOVE DOUGLAS BAY. 
 
 A STRIP of primeval land in the seas, 
 
 Where Progress has rested, but little done 
 Since the monkish days of the dead Culdees 
 
 (Though the iron horse is learning to run) ; 
 An island apart from the fretful throng — 
 
 From the sound of trade and the hiss of steam. 
 Where the jaded may hear a healthy song, 
 
 And dream in a place that is fit for a dream. 
 
 There is Douglas town ; it is white with sun ; 
 
 And below, where the lights and shades are blent, 
 The waves go a-wooing the rocks, and run 
 
 In tides of colour, of song, and of scent. 
 A world to live in ! There are fields and floods. 
 
 With the song of birds and the sun of seas. 
 And hills majestic that stretch to the woods. 
 
 Where the oxlips blow, and swing the brown bees. 
 
 A canorous wind sweeps up to the hill. 
 Like a winged organ for ears divine. 
 
 With the muffled tones of a cavern rill. 
 And breath like a floating draught of wine : 
 
 D 2 
 
35 ABOVE DOUGLAS BAY. 
 
 With a kiss that is soft as the touch of silk, 
 It comes with a thought that is sweet and cool, 
 
 Like the rain after drought, or warm new milk. 
 Or the voices of children singing in school. 
 
 The ships are rocking themselves to rest ; 
 
 And the bay, with its crescent of shining sand, 
 Is lit with the waning light of the west, 
 
 Like a piece of sky let down on the land, 
 Or a charmful glass in a golden frame, 
 
 Where all men may gaze, and some men may 
 know 
 That, while they look up to life without blame, 
 
 They may find the shadow of it below. 
 
 The gi-eat ^Sun he gathers his gold, and soon 
 
 His wraith will wander over the waves : 
 Now, the tide is going to meet the moon. 
 
 And runs from the coves and the weeded caves; 
 It slips from the sands inwoven with light. 
 
 And the floor of the bay is sleek and bare, 
 And summer twilight, the daughter of Night 
 
 And of Day, looks into a mirror there. 
 » « * « * 
 
 After the noon-blaze, in the breathful eve, 
 The many " folk of holiday " come out ; 
 
 And lovers saunter on the pier, and leave 
 The gossip of their friends, to walk about 
 
ABOVE DOUGLAS BAY. 37 
 
 The dark'ning shore, where they will nothing say, 
 And, though in search of shells, will nothing seek, 
 
 And feel that it is pleasant so to stray 
 
 In close companionship, and nothing speak. 
 
 Like to a glorious fairy ship afloat, 
 
 With one great sail of light the moon is come ; 
 And people sit in waiting for the boat 
 
 That brings new friends and messages from 
 home : 
 
 Though there be joys in weeks of quiet life, 
 With Mona's many riches to beguile. 
 
 The ship that comes from England and its strife, 
 Will make the truants in the darkness smile. 
 
IN EDEN. 
 
 The rising sun, with golden touch, 
 Brings beauty to the earth and air ; 
 
 Ah me ! that there should be so much 
 Of sorrow in a world so fair ! 
 
 The young birds charm the trees with song. 
 And praise the sweet year in its youth ; 
 
 Ah me ! that we should do the wrong, 
 And walk God's garden of the truth ! 
 
AN- INVITATION. 
 
 Dear friend, if you are seeking ease, 
 Come walk about my forest trees 
 And meadows green, where rustic ways 
 Bring tranquil nights and pleasant days- 
 
 Where cowslips grow along the brake. 
 And waxen lilies gem the lake ; 
 Where rabbits through the clover run, 
 And cresses curtsey to the sun. 
 
 I know that you are in the fight 
 That lasts from morning until night ; 
 I know you struggle hard for wealth. 
 And take but little heed of health. 
 
 'Twill do you good to come and see 
 The wild blooms blowing on the lea ; 
 To rest awhile where butterflies 
 Float idly under sunny skies ; 
 
40 AN INVITATION. 
 
 A wood where thrushes all the day 
 Sing songs to boys and girls at play ; 
 Where nightingales below the moon 
 Pipe many a trembling, throbbing tune. 
 
 I promise you the summer scent 
 Shall fill your heart with merriment ; 
 An idle week in this old wood 
 Will paint your cheeks and do you good. 
 
TRUE WORDS. 
 
 The words that are true at all times are in winds, 
 
 and in meadows, and seas ; 
 And men that know their own sorrows" and joys, 
 
 may find what they need in these ; 
 They have sympathy subtle with mortals of all 
 
 tongues and of all climes ; 
 They are sad with the sad, and rejoice with the 
 
 glad in happiest times ; 
 They are great with grief as a dirge, or as joyous 
 
 as amorous rhymes. 
 
 In Summer to lovers, silent for love, they say the 
 
 things that are best ; 
 They guide to the strongest and richest life, or 
 
 hush to the softest rest ; 
 And when the lovers have older grown, and with 
 
 graver faces they greet, — 
 These words remind them, above their own, of 
 
 hours and of days that were sweet ; 
 They may not forget the talk of trees and of 
 
 flow'rs that were round their feet. 
 
42 TRUE WORDS. 
 
 The child, and the man, and the woman have 
 
 feeHngs they cannot unfold, 
 But the woods and the brooks tell all to the young 
 
 people or to the old ; 
 By birds and by blossoms are given to the children 
 
 wonderful tales ; 
 And a list'ning, looking man a-field the language 
 
 of Nature inhales — 
 The words of the sun and the moon, and the wind 
 
 when it whispers or wails. 
 
 The songs that are sung by men unto men are not 
 
 to their full desire ; 
 They say too much or too little ; they lack warmth 
 
 or they have too much fire ; 
 And why should men look for true speech when 
 
 they know they cannot comprehend 
 The words that will tell their own feelings, and 
 
 will carry them to a friend 
 But by the woods and the waters they may find 
 
 the true words without end. 
 
EVENING. 
 
 Now evening, daughter of the day and night, 
 Spreads over meadow-land a dusky shroud ; 
 
 The sun, retreating, floods the west with light. 
 And hangs a golden lamp on ev'ry cloud. 
 
 The fairy butterflies have shut their wings — 
 From secret places moths come out to flit. 
 
 Or wait in windows till the cricket sings. 
 Till doors are closed and cottage candles lit. 
 
 Nan, in a pretty cap and simple frock. 
 Takes in the snow-white linen from the hedge. 
 
 To damp and iron by the kitchen clock. 
 
 And think of Ned who swings the smithy sledge. 
 
 The farmer over supper falls asleep 
 
 And, snoring, dreams of turnip crops and sheep. 
 
THE- PILOTS GIRL. 
 
 Above the cliffs, with her arms on the wall, 
 
 Bare-headed the pilot's bonny girl stands ; 
 What lad would not climb the rocks at her call ? 
 
 Struggle up to the top to touch her hands ? 
 But beauty has given no love surmise 
 
 Unto her outlooking over the sea ; 
 No longing is there in her fine, brave eyes, 
 
 For her whole young heart, as her life, is free ; 
 Yet a man might feel, should he pass this way, 
 A strange unrest for a year and a day. 
 
 The hedge-born flowers might bring back her face, 
 
 Like to them made fair with a simple life ; 
 And in notes of the field-birds he might trace 
 
 Faint tones to recall the wondering strife 
 That beat at his heart when he heard her voice ; 
 
 So might the stray glance of an idle morn 
 Draw him in uncertain dreams to rejoice 
 
 For a little while, and then feel forlorn ; 
 And desire would come to soothe his pain 
 By search for her face and her voice again. 
 
THE PILOT'S GIRL. 45 
 
 Again by the bay he would long to be, 
 
 That once more he might stray where great 
 cliffs rear ; 
 He would think of a maiden he might see 
 
 In the rose-time of her seventeenth year : 
 The outgoing gulls again would mingle, 
 
 Meeting white home-bending sails from the sea ; 
 And waves would still shake the sunlit shingle ; 
 
 But what to the dreamer would these charms be 
 If day after day, again and again, 
 He sought for the face and the voice in vain ? 
 
THE QUESTION. 
 
 I LOVE you, Maggie ; you are good — 
 I have a cottage in a wood, 
 With melody of boughs above ; 
 Alas ! my cot has not a love. 
 
 And throstles drink their morning wine 
 From dewy cups of eglantine, 
 And leaves make pleasant noise above — 
 Come crown my cottage and my love. 
 
 I have a little boat to take 
 My love upon a sheltered lake. 
 If she will come and faithful prove, 
 To share my cottage and my love. 
 
 The moon looks in the water white, 
 And nightingales sing of delight 
 And streams laugh at the stars above — 
 Come share my cottage and my love. 
 
THE QUESTION. 4f 
 
 The early larks to milkmen sing, 
 And linnets on the lilac swing, 
 'Mong bells of blue with blue above — 
 Come share my cottage and my love. 
 
 Come to my cot, and you will find 
 The village people good and kind : 
 At eve boys play upon the green, 
 And girls in dainty frocks are seen. 
 
 Come to my cot, and you shall see 
 The ploughman merry as may be, 
 The blacksmith in his forge as gay 
 As lovers on a morn of May. 
 
 Come to my cot, and I will show 
 My garden where geraniums grow, 
 And butterflies and belted bees 
 Kiss apple-bloom on orchard trees. 
 
 Come be my wife, and we will cull 
 From life the sweet and beautiful, 
 And earth shall shadow heaven above 
 If you will share my cot and love. 
 
IN A MEADOW. 
 
 How may a grateful mortal speak his thanks 
 
 For such a day as this ? The rillet plays 
 Between a paradise of lilied banks ; 
 
 Cool, sheltered by a million moving sprays. 
 The early sweets of life, that long had been 
 
 Forgotten in the darkened days of pain. 
 Come back to give old charms to each new scene, 
 
 And withered hopes, like trees, grow green 
 again. 
 
 Midmost the leafage of the bending lane, 
 
 Half hid in shade, half shining in the sun, 
 Rumbles the heavy, rocking, farmer's wain ; 
 
 And after it barefooted children run 
 To cheer the waggoner, and reach the hay 
 
 Plucked by the hedges ; and old women sit 
 To knit in silence and to nod away 
 
 The hours on cottage steps with noon-light lit. 
 
A DAY IN JUNE. 
 
 The clouds are pink about day's golden king : 
 Cool morning gilds the east, and in the west 
 Black ghosts crawl under earth. The dingles 
 ring 
 
 With new-awaken'd life. Grass blades are drest 
 
 In diamond drops. The bees have taken wing. 
 
 The lark has risen from his earthly nest. 
 
 The farmer has thrown off his slumbering, 
 
 And rosy Jane has had enough of rest, 
 
 And comes to milk the cows, and she will sing, 
 
 And, smiling, think of him she loves the best. 
 
 The dazzling morn has brought a warm delight : 
 
 New-budded flowers deck the forest way. 
 
 The school-boy in the meadow flies his kite. 
 
 And clouds are streak' d with many a sunny ray. 
 
 And shining blue behind the shining white 
 
 Entices weary travellers to stay, 
 
 And sit upon the bank with daisies bright, 
 
 While fishes in the tepid river play. 
 
 And floating bubbles, fine in colour'd light. 
 
 Mirror in miniature the god of Da)^ 
 
 E 
 
So A DAY IN yUNE. 
 
 The peaceful evening falls : the blazing sun 
 Paints glory upon earth, and floods the sky 
 With beauty. Now the garish day is done 
 Moths in the dark'ning have come out to fly. 
 Lights glimmer here and there. Bats have begun 
 To flit, and o'er the hills comes melody 
 Of curfew bells. The chirping crickets run 
 On cottage hearths, and dreamily on high 
 Stars gather round the moonboat one by one. 
 And night winds sing an easeful lullaby. 
 
SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 The sun, that softer seems on Sabbath days, 
 
 Is showing shadow-trees along the lanes, 
 And streaming into church by window ways. 
 
 And throwing coloured hght from pictured 
 panes 
 Upon the aisle, like Psalms that have no tone : 
 
 One sunbeam through the roof has found its 
 way. 
 And shines athwart the row of saints in stone, 
 
 And worlds of dust are floating in the ray. 
 
 The sun is on the preacher's silv'ry head, 
 
 And gives a comfort to his homely words ; 
 It lights the dim memorials of the dead ; 
 
 'Tis in the ivy, too, with twitt'ring birds : 
 The listless schoolboys, with their sunburnt looks. 
 
 Glance round to see the sparrow at the door ; 
 The elder people keep them to their books. 
 
 And poor old folk stare steadfast at the floor. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 The organ's prelude to the anthem fills 
 
 The shaded church, and stirs the hearts of men, 
 Until it sinks to whispering, and stills 
 
 The trembling walls to silentness again ; 
 And now a gentle voice is heard alone, 
 
 Pleading in saintly strains to ev'ry ear. 
 And winning ev'ry heart with its rich tone — 
 
 A boy's pure treble solo, sweet and clear. 
 
 The pray'rs are ended, and all homeward go. 
 
 In twos and threes, by many a pleasant way. 
 Through woodlands where familiar flowers gro\y, 
 
 And fields that in their summer growth are gay ; 
 The simple worship of a little while 
 
 Has planted new hopes in the place of cares ; 
 They know the happiness that brings a smile — 
 
 The grace that follows earnest pray'r is theirs. 
 
UNDER A TREE. 
 
 Though never so bright 
 
 The sun be at noon, 
 Yet I have twilight 
 And a tinkling tune — 
 Under a beech,. 
 Where the boughs reach 
 Down to the rill that trickles along, 
 Playing in beads, and laughing in song ; 
 And musical sound 
 Is wafted around — 
 Coos the cuckoo, linnets sing too, 
 In the green tree under the blue. 
 
 And soft is the light 
 
 Where peaceful I lie ; 
 And cloud'boats of white 
 Sail on in the sky ; 
 Under my tree 
 Sit I, and see 
 A blending of bloom, a shimmer of streams 
 Chequered with shadow and shiniest gleams ; 
 
54 UNDER A TREE. 
 
 And ladybirds come, 
 And yellow bees hum — 
 Young pigeons coo, throstles sing too, 
 In the green tree under the blue. 
 
 And as I beguile 
 
 The time with a book, 
 There comes by the stile 
 A maid with a look 
 Speaking. of love — 
 O for her glove ! 
 A word, a smile, or even a pat 
 Of her hand, or the flower from her hat ! 
 This maid must be mine : 
 Now let me not pine. 
 Sing, throstles, sing ; teach me to woo 
 By the green tree under the blue. 
 
BIRDS IN THE WOOD. 
 
 The birds are in the wood, 
 Tweet-cheroo, jug, jug-a-jug ! 
 And moss is all ablaze 
 In the weedy ways, 
 Cheroo-tweet, jug-a-jug, jug ! 
 The painted butterflies float in the dusky dell. 
 The brown and yellow bees swing in the woodbine 
 bell. 
 
 The birds are in the wood, 
 Tweet-cheroo, jug, jug-a-jug; 
 And my love is in the lane — 
 In the leafy lane, 
 Cheroo-tweet, jug-a-jug, jug ! 
 The farmer in the fallow is merry as the morn. 
 And his waistcoat is red as the poppies in the corn. 
 
 The birds are in the wood, 
 Tweet-cheroo, jug, jug-a-jug; 
 
 And I will to my love — 
 
 To my loving love, 
 Cheroo-tweet, jug-a-jug, jug ! 
 
56 BIRDS IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And we will laugh and love where rabbits frisk and 
 
 run, 
 Till the falling of the sun and the day is done. 
 
 The birds are in the wood, 
 Tweet-cheroo, jug, jug-a-jug ! 
 And we'll come home to-night 
 In the starry light, 
 Cheroo-tweet, jug-a-jug, jug ! 
 Together in the light, tweet-cheroo, jug, jug-a-jug! 
 Of the starry night, cheroo-tweet, jug-a-jug, jug ! 
 
SUMMER EVES. 
 
 My mind is full of memories to-day 
 
 That have the music of old nursery rhymes. 
 While Kate and Totty here have been at play, 
 
 Have I been in a trance of other times — 
 Of summer eves that slid by, one by one. 
 
 Like angels passing to another land ; 
 But they have left their joys, though they are 
 gone, 
 
 And lift the curtain with a gentle hand. 
 
 It was a summer eve when Arthur came 
 
 And spoke the things that I may not forget ; 
 The poppies then, as now, were all aflame. 
 
 And there was sweetness with the mignonette. 
 That night a new moon sailed, and spoke of truth 
 
 That should encircle all our years below : 
 Our love, like to the moon, was in its youth. 
 
 And there was hope in its faint, tender glow. 
 
58 SUMMER EVES. 
 
 A summer eve, again he came to me, 
 
 And I was joyous, who had been forlorn ; 
 We sat together by the apple-tree. 
 
 And ere he left we knew our marriage morn. 
 That night a half-moon lit the moving length 
 
 Of forest trees ; and our love, like the moon. 
 Had more of gentle light and passion's strength, 
 
 And it would come to sweeter fairness soon. 
 
 The summer eves fell into summer days. 
 
 And each bright day new happiness was born, 
 Till we went by the quiet village ways 
 
 To Abbey Church, and it was marriage morn. 
 That night the full moon came with glorious shine, 
 
 And showed the garden treasures at our feet ; 
 And our love, Hke the moon, was full and fine. 
 
 And our divine felicity complete. 
 
SUMMER OF CONTENT. 
 
 I REMEMBER a mom behind the mill 
 
 When blackbirds sang, 
 
 And sheepbells rang 
 Far off, and all things else were still, 
 
 But the rising bream 
 
 In the pictured stream, 
 And the noise of water about the mill. 
 
 I remember a maid in her sweet youth, 
 
 Whose gentle days 
 
 In village ways 
 Were passed with simple works of truth ; 
 
 By her I sat. 
 
 On a moss-made mat. 
 In a dream of love, in a time of youth. 
 
 I remember cuckoo-buds dressed in green, 
 
 The light heart glee 
 
 That came to me, 
 With the smile of my love at seventeen — 
 
 The laugh that went 
 
 Like woodland scent 
 To my soul in the sun on the daisied green. 
 
60 SUMMER OF CONTENT. 
 
 And though I remember the days are spent, 
 
 That love was lost 
 
 When came the frost 
 At the end of the summer of my content, 
 
 Yet some joy stays 
 
 In winter days. 
 Because of old kisses and old content. 
 
OLD LOVE AND NEW. 
 
 If Edith use me as a toy 
 
 To kill an idle day, 
 Or look upon me as a boy, 
 
 To call or send away ; 
 If she be fickle as the wind, 
 
 Then I'll be fickle too, 
 And leave her soon, that I may find 
 
 Another maid to woo. 
 
 If Fanny care not for a sigh. 
 
 And laugh at all my love, 
 I will not plead again and cry 
 
 For pity from above ; 
 If she no longer can be kind, 
 
 Then I'll be kindless too. 
 And leave her soon, that I may find 
 
 Another maid to woo. 
 
 If Katie, who did kiss me once 
 
 In early courtship days. 
 Should teach me I was but a dunce 
 
 To trust her wanton ways — 
 
62 OLD LOVE AND NEW. 
 
 If she should learn to change her mind, 
 Then I will change mine too, 
 
 And leave her soon, that I may find 
 Another maid to woo. 
 
 If Mary tell me to my face 
 
 She hath no love for me, 
 Then earth is but a prison place 
 
 Of daily misery. 
 If she be careless as the wind, 
 
 Still will my soul be true : 
 I love her so, I may not find 
 
 Another maid to woo. 
 
THE SILENT THRUSH. 
 
 Pook thrush ! you sit in your wicker cage and 
 
 stare throughout the day ; 
 You know that you are bound with bars, and can- 
 not fly away. 
 And you do not beat the feathers from your wings 
 
 for freedom now, 
 As you did when you were taken from the swinging 
 
 beechen bough ; 
 Though you can hear your merry mates a-singing 
 
 in the lane. 
 You sit all day in silence, in the sun or in the 
 
 rain, 
 And remind me of the ancient king who never 
 
 laughed again. 
 
 I wonder, melancholy thrush, if you remember 
 
 aught 
 Of your partner, and your pleasures in the woods, 
 
 ere you were caught ? 
 
64 THE SILENT THRUSH. 
 
 Of the dainty fare in fresh fields, of a nest in 
 
 sheltering green — 
 Do you remember anything of sweet things that 
 
 have been ? 
 Of mornings in the June-tide when the sun came 
 
 o'er the hill ? 
 For sure you know all is not well — for sure some 
 
 sorrows fill 
 That little feathered frame of yours, else why are 
 
 you so still ? 
 
 Do you wish that I would go away ? It may be I 
 
 intrude. 
 But you should not turn your tail to me, for that 
 
 is rather rude ; 
 Do you think I'm talking nonsense ? that the ill of 
 
 men or birds 
 Is not to be made lighter by mere sentimental 
 
 words ? 
 If that is what you mean, my little friend, it may 
 
 be so; 
 No doubt you think if I have pity for you in your 
 
 woe 
 I might help instead of talk — undo the door, and 
 
 let you go ? 
 
THE SILENT THRUSH. 65 
 
 And so I will, my lonely friend, for you often make 
 
 me sad 
 When I sit and see you silent while the other birds. 
 
 are glad ; 
 There ! be at liberty ; the good deed is better than 
 
 the word, 
 And I feel some blessing on me for helping but a 
 
 bird; 
 Ah ! now you are as happy as a little thrush may 
 
 be ; 
 You look this way as you sing loud upon the apple- 
 tree, 
 And I know that you are singing out your sweetest 
 
 thanks to me. 
 
BIRDS, 
 
 O YE who complain 
 
 Of Life, and are sad, 
 Come sit in the lane 
 That summer has clad 
 In green coats of moss, with flowers begem'd, 
 Bedotted by buds and with buttercups hem'd, 
 And listen to birds that flutter and flit, 
 Trilling, and singing cheroo a-twit-twit. 
 Twit-twit cheroo, cheroo a-twit-twit. 
 
 Fair days quickly run — 
 Take time as he flies, 
 And lie in the sun, 
 
 'Ere sweet summer dies. 
 For beauty brings love, and joy in love lies ; 
 And what sweeter beauty than blue in the skies, 
 With summer below, and gay birds to flit 
 'Mong bunches of leaves, a-singing twit -twit, 
 Twit-twit cheroo, cheroo a-twit-twit ? 
 
BIRDS. 67 
 
 Then sit on the grass 
 
 With thy love in the lane — 
 A swain needs a lass, 
 
 And a lass needs a swain. 
 All live things and pretty in forest or field 
 Woo and are wooed, and unto love yield ; 
 And the chattering birds that flutter and flit 
 Have paired and are happy, singing twit -twit, 
 Piping, and singing cheroo a-twit-twit. 
 Twit-twit cheroo, cheroo a-twit-twit. 
 
 ]■ 2 
 
THE SIGNAL. 
 
 The day is come for the ship to sail, and for John 
 
 to go to sea, 
 And his aged mother is fretting with the bairnie on 
 
 her knee ; 
 The morning meal is scarcely touched ; and the 
 
 wife is still for sorrow, 
 For her good man will soon be gone, and she will 
 
 be lone to-morrow : 
 Black clouds are lowering in the sky, but between 
 
 them streams the sun. 
 With the light of hope in the dark time that for 
 
 her is just begun. 
 Oh, may his heart keep as true as hers, and the 
 
 ship in safety run ! 
 
 And nowthey are waiting on the beach, and John, 
 
 with uneasy breath. 
 Is fearing to say the sad farewell — farewell, the 
 
 shadow of death : 
 
THE SIGNAL. 69 
 
 They have little to say, and little know of writing 
 
 in the books, 
 But though they have lack of words, they can talk 
 
 to each other with looks ; 
 They can feel the heart in the hand, and read what 
 
 is written in eyes ; 
 They can tell of their joys and their sorrows in 
 
 kisses and in sighs. 
 And so can they speak to each other without the 
 
 words of the wise. 
 
 There is the good ship, the Mary Ann, at her 
 
 moorings in the bay ; 
 And a boat is grating on the sand, and ready to 
 
 put away 
 To the waiting ship with John and his mates. Ah, 
 
 there's the signal gun ! 
 And the husband turns to kiss his wife, and they 
 
 to each other run : 
 It is over at last, and her good man is with the 
 
 other tars ; 
 She will, weeping, watch the good ship go till the 
 
 dark clouds hide the spars ; 
 And then for long, lonely nights by the sea below 
 
 the silent stars. 
 
MAR Y . 
 
 Mary can sing — 
 Not larks that float above the yellow wheat 
 Can give a touch of melody as sweet 
 
 As she can sing ; 
 Not brooks that whisper round a wood at night 
 Can give me half the passionate delight 
 
 As when my love doth sing. 
 
 Mary has eyes — 
 Not blue skies mirrored in a mountain lake 
 Can from me half such sighing homage take 
 
 As Mary's eyes ; 
 Not ocean's secret cavern-pools, that glow 
 In fairy palaces, such beauty know 
 
 As my love's bright brown eyes. 
 
 Mary has hair — 
 You may not such surpassing fairness find 
 In golden grain, that whispers to the wind. 
 
 As in her hair ; 
 Not moonlight sleeping on an angel's wings 
 Is half as sweet, nor aught that nature brings. 
 
 As my love's light brown hair. 
 
MARY. 71 
 
 Such is my love — 
 The larks that over yellow wheat-fields float 
 May to another sing as sweet a note 
 
 As does my love ; 
 But if another would her beauty know, 
 Let him unto his own fair mistress go — 
 
 Fairer is my dear love. 
 
A REST BY THE WA Y. 
 
 Here in the sheltered wayside will I stay, 
 To look upon this fair place ere I go ; 
 
 And sweeten rest where winds harmonious stray 
 With just enough of strength to whisper low — 
 
 To sway the feathered thistle balls that pass, 
 
 And lift faint odours from the meadow grass. 
 
 Upon the brook clouds come and drift away. 
 And in reflected blue a hammer swings ; 
 
 He flinks his tail to show his gold and gray. 
 And at his image in the water sings : 
 
 A coloured flash ! a moment gone, then he 
 Is glinting far-off in another tree. 
 
 All things around recall the purer days 
 
 That we have gathered from the troubled years ; 
 
 Unto our lips come lines of old-world lays, 
 
 That oft have smoothed our fortunes and our 
 fears : 
 
 Quaint, simple songs by poets put together, 
 
 Under the forest trees in sunny weather. 
 
A REST BY THE WAY. 73 
 
 How happy are they who, in full content, 
 Can pass an evening at a cottage door, 
 
 Near garden herbs and trees with apples bent, 
 And streaming sun upon the sanded floor ; 
 
 Who do not wish the light of day to pass 
 
 That they may seek the city and its gas. 
 
A DREAM OF A DREAM. 
 
 O FOR a bed of buttercups, to rest 
 
 Therein, and watch the summer swallows pass ; 
 And see the meadow-flowers I love the best 
 / Among the fairy forests of the grass ; 
 \ That I might seem, 
 
 Without regret. 
 In a fair dream 
 Of Margaret : 
 To hold her white warm hand and read her smile. 
 And feel her kiss again beside the stile ! 
 
 O for one hour underneath a hedge, 
 
 With boughs of full-blown may-bloom overhead. 
 Clear water blowing bubbles in the sedge, 
 And waving weeds above its pebble bed 
 To sink down deep, 
 With sun above. 
 And have, in sleep, 
 This dream of love — 
 Of love that was, and may not be again ; 
 Of dear heart-love before it grew to pain ! 
 
A DREAM OF A DRUAM. 75 
 
 If the delusion old delight could bring, 
 
 And let me hear the gentle maiden voice 
 Speak what was spoken once to mCj and sing 
 The song that made my soul wake to rejoice, — 
 Though after sleep 
 
 Came aching truth. 
 To bid me weep 
 In bitter ruth, — 
 Yet would I walk again my shadow'd way 
 Ten years, to dream the dream another day. 
 
TOTTER BELLS* 
 
 How green and long the grass is where we lie, 
 
 In secret, shaded ground ! 
 The laughing wind creeps in, then hurries by. 
 And the wide fern bends low, and rising, swells, 
 To set a-swinging all the totter bells. 
 
 That ring without a sound. 
 
 How strange that memory should hang about 
 
 A frond of trembling grass ! 
 r see old totter bells, and hear the shout 
 Of schoolboys running home along the lanes, 
 Where the sun, swelt'ring in a sea of stains. 
 Gilds every pane of glass. 
 
 When I was petted in a pinafore. 
 
 And kept a wooden cow, 
 You stood each side the clock behind the door 
 Like ears, and when the bells began to sound, 
 You shook for fear, and fell into a swound 
 
 At that strange, stinging row. 
 
 * Trembling gx'ass. 
 
TOTTER BELLS. 77 
 
 And even now are you awaiting woe, 
 
 Though green below the blue ; 
 And you are sad because the breeze will blow — 
 Because the giant butterflies will come, 
 And set the blust'ring bees to swarm and hum 
 All day, and frighten you. 
 
BETROTHAL. 
 
 I CANNOT tell you of my joy that morn, 
 When we together walked between the corn, 
 
 And sunniest beams 
 Were chasing, with soft silver-sandalled feet, 
 The gliding shadows on the golden wheat ; 
 
 Fair day of dreams ! — 
 Pure dreams prophetical, that all came true, 
 And gave me love in life and life in you. 
 
 That memorable morn began the charm : 
 The gossips had our story at the farm 
 
 Ere they were told ; 
 The pigeons seemed to know we should be wed. 
 And cooed a sweet approval on the shed ; 
 
 And Isaac, old 
 And white with peaceful years, took me aside 
 To ask if I had won you as my bride. 
 
BETROTFIAL. 
 
 I read a fairy book that afternoon, 
 
 And through the window came the breath of June, 
 
 To kiss your face. 
 And honeysuckle nesting in your hair ; 
 Your father was asleep in his big chair 
 
 By the door place : 
 Dear time of summer dusk and blossom scent, 
 Of garden walks, in glad bewilderment. 
 
 I cannot tell you of my joy that night. 
 But I remember that the stars were bright. 
 
 And lilacs swung 
 To cooling wind with gentle rise and fall, 
 In moonlit clusters by the orchard wall, 
 
 Where roses hung ; 
 And I remember with new lease of life 
 I had a precious gift and called it — ^wife ! 
 
IN THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 Bring a cushion, my love, and come with me 
 For an idle hour in the gath'ring shade ; 
 
 We will sit awhile together, and see 
 
 The glow of this summer-lit garden fade ; 
 
 Till lights come out at the farms on the lea, 
 And the mist veils over the ships at sea. 
 
 As we rest in this leaf-lined, bloom-roofed walk. 
 We are far from the eyes and ears of men ; 
 
 It is as secret for us and our talk 
 As a pathless nook in a forest-glen : 
 
 Let us stay till the moon looks o'er the wall. 
 
 And silvers our haunt like a fairy hall. 
 
 The darkness is falling ; the leaves are bent 
 With the chilly dew, and the clear drops stand. 
 
 Like sensitive charms from elfin-land sent, 
 To console the blossoms and bless the land. 
 
 And over the roses their guard to keep, 
 
 In the moonlit hours of silence and sleep. 
 
IN THE COOL OF THE DAY. 8i 
 
 While the stars come out, and the glow-worm 
 brings 
 
 His lantern to light in the cool hedgerow. 
 And the nightingale in the forest sings 
 
 Tio-tio, jug-jug, swoot, tio-to ; 
 Let us go indoors, and with pleasant songs. 
 Remember our joys and forget our wrongs. 
 
MARRIAGE MORN. 
 
 This is the sunny marriage morn 
 Of Clara Winwood, who was born 
 
 In yonder cot 
 That seems to float upon the corn — 
 Bright summer and her marriage morn ; 
 
 Would it were not ! 
 The bridegroom walks with happy stride, 
 But he has only won her pride. 
 
 She tames her love and gives her hand 
 Because he is a lord of land, 
 
 And he can ride 
 For miles and say, " All this is mine ; 
 And what is mine, my love, is thine." 
 
 And she can hide 
 Her soul, and, though her heart be cold, 
 Put on a smile to get his gold. 
 
 There is a youth in Brinton Dell, 
 And Clara Winwood loves him well : 
 
MARRIAGE MORN. 83 
 
 And he loves her 
 Unto the very core of truth — 
 With all the passion of his youth : 
 
 And would it vs^ere 
 That he could prove true love and health 
 Are far beyond the price of wealth ! 
 
 Old women tread the churchyard grass 
 To see the bride and bridegroom pass ; 
 
 And children play 
 Round gravestones where their sisters sleep ; 
 And older children know and weep, 
 
 And turn away. 
 The gossips stand beneath the trees, 
 And watch and wait in twos and threes. 
 
 The belfry shakes, the warm air swells 
 With merry peal of bridal bells. 
 
 Alas, alas ! 
 For Time will teach the bride by stealth 
 That love is richer far than wealth. 
 
 Alas, alas ! 
 The bridegroom who can buy and sell 
 Shall meet the youth of Brinton Dell ! 
 
WHILE THE SUN GOES DOWN. 
 
 Be with me, pleasant thought, that I may glean 
 
 Fair fancies as I sit here in the shade ; 
 Be strong for me, my mem'ry, that the scene 
 
 May not be soiled with meaner things, and fade ; 
 I can recall the pleasures I have known 
 
 In pathless places, in old hopeful days ; 
 The charm of woodland music idly blown 
 
 About broad boughs in unfrequented ways ; 
 Now may I print this picture on my brain, 
 That I may see it in the winter rain. 
 
 The hills stretch out for miles, like to a sea 
 
 Stilled into stone in some forgotten age, 
 And robed with richest growth of herb and tree, 
 
 By passing seasons in their pilgrimage ; 
 For years in thousands have they stood out there, 
 
 And stared defiance at the tempest's frown ; 
 And yet to-day they show young colours, fair 
 
 In many mixing tints of green and brown ; 
 But I forget the frail friends at my feet ; 
 How very short their lives — how very sweet ! 
 
WHILE THE SUN GOES DOWN. 85 
 
 The modest, fair forget-me-not is here : 
 
 Who shall forget you ? Not the lover — no ; 
 For he would give the bank of wild blooms near 
 
 Rather than find you and without you go ; 
 And still these little gems of tender blue, 
 
 That silently confess for timid swains, 
 Might, simple homely daisies, envy you. 
 
 When children find you in the grassy lanes. 
 And take you with unsullied hands and soft, 
 And always love you, though they see you oft. 
 
 Above the trees, beyond the houseless moor. 
 
 The coloured clouds, banked up,conspireto show 
 Strange palaces with many a golden door, 
 
 Where silver floods in jewell'd valleys flow ; 
 They fade, like fairy cities in a dream ; 
 
 The late lights linger of the weary sun. 
 And now they slowly sink into the stream, 
 
 And the cool hush of evening is begun : 
 Now looming fires appear through cottage panes, 
 To cheer the homeward walk along the lanes. 
 
AFTERMATH. 
 
 Come whisper in this oak, west wind, and blow 
 
 A breathing music in among the leaves 
 To soothe siesta, while haymakers throw 
 The dying grass that fairy perfume weaves ; 
 And as the pail 
 Of frothing ale 
 Is eagerl}' caressed by sunburnt arms, 
 I'll dream of country life and rustic charms. 
 
 Come, carol in this oak, clear-throated birds. 
 
 And let your summer's love be in the lay ; 
 Unto the droning tune of leaves give words, 
 And in kind fellowship together play ; 
 And I will hearken 
 Till shadows darken — 
 Till all the men go home, and cloudlets swim 
 In glowing amber at the western rim. 
 
JILTED. 
 
 Then tell her this — that now 
 I have not any wish 9.gain to see 
 A face that has no longer charms for me ; 
 
 And that piy vow 
 Is broken by her own that was not made 
 With any truth ; that she has only played 
 False with a man who would have her betrayed. 
 
 My friend, I know her well : 
 She picked me up that she might put me down 
 When she had shown a victim to the town : 
 
 But, pray you tell 
 This young-man-hunter that her loveliest look 
 Is harmless here ; and that although I took 
 Her well-trimmed bait, I did not bite the hook. 
 
 There is no love lost, no — 
 She beckoned me that she might draw the eyes 
 Of other men to her, and win a prize ; 
 
 And, for a show. 
 
88 JILTED. 
 
 I followed, using her as she used me, 
 Till I was surfeited ; and so, you see, 
 Her message from a nightmare sets me free. 
 
 Tell her I was unwell 
 Until her welcome letter came to me, 
 And filled me full of laughing health and glee ; 
 
 And also tell 
 This flirt — O pity me !-^and do not go 
 To speak these lies ; I am too weak to know 
 My heart in this hour of my overthrow. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER. 
 
 No longer, Summer, need you now complain, 
 
 And wish to leave us with your weary band : 
 Your sister Autumn and her motley train, 
 
 In solemn pomp, are coming to this land. 
 Much as I love your ways, your scent and song. 
 
 Your sylvan halls of green, your tent of blue. 
 And all the joys that to your reign belong, 
 
 Yet I must own I love your sister too. 
 
 See, even now her messengers appear — 
 
 The woodcock and the snipe from over seas ; 
 They are not yours, and yet they do not fear 
 
 To fold their wings and rest upon your trees ; 
 Nor will you fear to seek a sunny isle, 
 
 And gladden it with many a woodland strain 
 You only leave us for a little while. 
 
 And we shall often wish for you again. 
 
 How happy are the swallows to be free, 
 That they may find new-budded banks for you ! 
 
 How eagerly they sail above the sea, 
 
 To spread their wings in skies of warmer blue ! 
 
go THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER. 
 
 Your true attendants leave you one by one, 
 'Tis your command, and it is their desire ; 
 
 And in a little while you will be gone, 
 
 And we shall think of evenings by the fire. 
 
 We shall remember you when Autumn makes 
 
 The mists to hang for days upon the lea ; 
 We shall remember you when Winter shakes 
 
 The ships a thousand miles away at sea ; 
 Still, Autumn she will give us fruitful store, 
 
 And feasts and festivals will Winter bring ; 
 But we shall not forget you ; no, before 
 
 Dies Winter, we shall sigh to hear you sing. 
 
WATCHING FOR SAILS, 
 
 The morning moaned with sweeping rain ; 
 The wind shrieked with the raging main, 
 He took the seagulls in his hand. 
 And, laughing, blew them back to land. 
 
 The gulls went out again in glee. 
 
 To be carried across the sea ; 
 
 The wind he puffed them from his hand. 
 
 Like bits of paper back to land. 
 
 The fishermen went out at night ; 
 The herring-smacks are not in sight — 
 The wives are paled with tempest wails, 
 And watch with full eyes for the sails. 
 
 The big waves run against the rocks 
 As they would wake them with their shocks ; 
 And still the wives stand in the rain. 
 And look for sails at early wane. 
 
 The rain it rained and the wind it blew 
 All day until the darkness grew ; 
 
92 WATCHING FOR SAILS. 
 
 Storm voices then together screamed, 
 
 And still wives watched as though they dreamed. 
 
 The herring-smacks are in from sea ! 
 The fishermen are home at tea ; 
 The bairns their little prayers have said, 
 And go in clean white gowns to bed. 
 
A QUIET NIGHT. 
 
 So still the starry night, I almost fear 
 
 My mortal tread, least I should put to flight 
 
 A fairy that, for some time of the year, 
 
 Holds court in this old garden by the night. 
 
 The flow'rs are broad awake : for very truth 
 On this forsaken ground, enchantment dwells, 
 
 Such as may breathless hold an am'rous youth. 
 Who seeks at dead of night for lover spells, 
 With anxious, fearful heart, in haunted dells. 
 
 I will not walk, but sit upon this seat. 
 That I may see, and hear, and no noise make ; 
 
 In time gone by how many gentle feet 
 
 Strayed hitherward to rest for dear Love's sake ? 
 
 Brave, bright-eyed youths, and many a gentle maid 
 Came, haply, here in June or autumn cold, 
 
 Leaving the great hall by the portal's shade 
 To tell a tale that even then was old — 
 How oft at this seat has the tale been told ? 
 
94 A QUIET NIGHT. 
 
 The growing things, it seems, have eyes to see ; 
 
 They softly shake their heads, but make no 
 moan ; 
 It may be they are whispering of me, 
 
 And wond'ring why I wandered here alone. 
 I am not waiting for a partner ; no. 
 
 You need not point at me for that ; the hall 
 Is rank with ruin ; lovers do not go 
 
 To feast together at the baron's call. 
 
 For years they have been dead and buried, all. 
 
 How silent ! how bewilderingly calm ! 
 
 How strange to be in such a place alone ! 
 The big owl on the bough is fixed by charm ; 
 
 The cat sits on the wall still as a stone : 
 Listen ! the nightingale ! Oh, what a thrill 
 
 Of glory falls on all fair things around ! 
 Now know I why this place has been so still ; 
 
 The fairies have shut out all grosser sound 
 
 To hear your song in this old garden-ground. 
 
A SEASON-RING. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Behold the full-eared corn ! the clustered vine ! 
 The harvest gift to man of wheat and wine : 
 For these have good folk toiled the long year 
 
 through ; 
 Their daily bread — and cup of comfort too. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The strange sun, like a red moon o'er the land, 
 Gives sad light to the trees that silent stand. 
 With all their leafage lost and buried low. 
 Beneath the white pall of the frozen snow. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 New leaves and cowslips deck the frock of Spring, 
 And in the length'ning evenings new birds sing ; 
 The primrose lifts its young face to the rain, 
 And bunching hawthorn sweetens heart and brain. 
 
96 A SEASON-RING. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Now is the beauty of the year broad blown, 
 With coloured flowers and fronded ferns full 
 
 grown — 
 A paradise for painted butterflies, 
 That float between green meadows and blue skies. 
 
WAITING. 
 
 I KNOW that summer sweets are now broad blown. 
 That lanes are lined with hedges that have grown 
 
 Green in blue days ; 
 I know that mary-buds have come and gone ; 
 But sunny weeks are dying one by one, 
 
 And my love stays 
 Behind, so that my winter cares remain : 
 When joys cannot be plucked they give but pain. 
 
 What are the fullest fruits, however sweet, 
 To one who has not any wish to eat ? 
 
 If I could go 
 With my true plighted love and heart's content 
 By the Lethean tide of garden scent 
 
 Where blossoms blow, 
 I would not teach my lips to make complaint. 
 Nor envy any man, nor any saint. 
 
 My love is waiting till the time may be 
 
 For her to wed ; but Time moves not for me ; 
 
 H 
 
gS WAITING. 
 
 The later year 
 May rob me of the prize that should be mine, 
 And Time say to another, " She is thine ;" 
 
 And so I fear — 
 While she is growing to full bloom for me, 
 My soul is starving for what may not be. 
 
 All clad in colours will the woodlands be, 
 
 In two more months, when Fate will turn to me. 
 
 And take or give ; 
 O may the summer days run quickly by. 
 And my doubts fall with autumn leaves and die ; 
 
 And may we live 
 To gather love with fruit — our love will be 
 As rich and ripe as fruit of any tree. 
 
AUTUMN VOICES. 
 
 Spirit of mournfulness ! chill Autumn wind ! 
 
 Making the bare trees shiver as you blow ; 
 I think I hear you say unto mankind, 
 
 " The flowers are dead, and ye must die also." 
 
 Branches that held bloom-tassels in June's day. 
 Wither above the water's sullen flow 
 
 That sings to men of graves : " Alack-a-day ! 
 The flowers are dead, and ye must die also." 
 
 Man hears, and does not hum the merry ditty 
 That spoke his heart when hedges were aglow 
 
 With hawthorn, for the leaves say : " Pity ! pity ! 
 We die ! we die ! and ye must die also." 
 
 O wail of water ! heavy lay of leaves ! 
 
 You shall not sicken me ; the flowers go 
 To Paradise, where nothing dies or grieves, 
 
 Ay, there they live again — and man also. 
 
 H 2 
 
IN THE BAY. 
 
 Let me rest on my oars, and breath awhile, before 
 
 I make my way 
 To the Drake Rock, where the waves are white in 
 
 the middle of the bay : 
 'Tis too chill these autumn mornings to lie for an 
 
 hour in the boat. 
 And watch the clouds or the moving craft, or to sit 
 
 with line and float ; 
 The breeze it is keen ; go in, my oars ; and away, 
 
 my Good Intent ! 
 Let us go with a will, and show our love for this 
 
 wild merriment. 
 Like gulls with the wind in their wings, and the 
 
 brine of the sea for scent. 
 
 It was bravely done, my little boat ; and now we 
 
 have made the rock, 
 That smiles in its grey granite strength at the 
 
 giant sea's roughest shock : 
 
IN THE BA Y. 
 
 What a feeling of life and of freedom in this 
 primeval place ! 
 
 Where the wind from a wilderness of waves brings 
 
 blood into the face! 
 See how each billow rears in its pride as it runs to 
 
 us and swells, 
 Then breaks on the pebbles with music soft as 
 
 brooks in wooded dells — 
 No wonder there should be voices in the beautiful 
 
 whiteworn shells. 
 
 It is darkening now ; we must put back, for I can 
 
 feel and hear 
 A coming, whistling, madcap storm that might 
 
 give an old salt some fear. 
 Right and ready ! ah, now we are running before 
 
 its outstretched hand ; 
 Warm well to the work, and half-an-hour will 
 
 bring us well to the land ; 
 We do not make much headway, my Good Intent, 
 
 though we seem to glide ; 
 I remember, tide is against us ; still we are against 
 
 the tide ; 
 Come, let us strain to our utmost strength ; ah, 
 
 now we ride, we ride ! 
 
IN THE BA Y. 
 
 We are in smoother waters — steady ; we have 
 
 beaten wind and tide ; 
 The flying clouds are throwing shadows on the 
 
 barren, bleak hill-side, 
 And the sun comes out to silver again the sea-gulls 
 
 on the wing ; 
 1 know we are nearing home at last ; I can hear 
 
 the buoy-bell ring : 
 Here are the shivering trees once more ; they have 
 
 lost half of their gold 
 Since I went out ; the rough wind has laid their 
 
 coloured leaves in the cold : 
 The days are becoming darker now, for the year is 
 
 growing old. 
 
AT THE FIFTH ACT. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 A PLAY, whereof the scenes are bitter-sweet, 
 
 Is acted in young days of ardent truth 
 By modest maidens fair from face to feet. 
 
 And by their worshippers, aspiring youth. 
 The first act is as welcome as the sight 
 
 Of a new moon looking through a wood in 
 spring ; 
 The second act and third are full of light, 
 
 And summer warmth and scent of blossoming ; 
 The fourth act is the eve of harvest-day, 
 
 When love, large-hearted, beats to melody ; 
 And then the doubtful fifth act ends the play, 
 
 And makes it comedy or tragedy. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Our life is a wood of fairy fame. 
 
 Where you may enter and behold the spring. 
 And farther on see summer bloom aflame, 
 
 And hear the birds that through the long days 
 sing. 
 
104 ^T THE FIFTH ACT. 
 
 Anon you come to where the late lights blend, 
 
 And find the colour'd autumn trees aglow. 
 Such is the fairy wood ; and at the end 
 
 Are brumal boughs and banks all white with 
 snow. 
 Amelia Wetherland, with eyes of truth, 
 
 Began the strange walk through the changing 
 wood, 
 And at the entrance met a merry youth, 
 
 With sweet surprise of early womanhood. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 On Edward Thorpe love like a kind dream fell ; 
 
 A moment in a sudden maze he stood, 
 While passion's piping prelude woo'd him well, 
 
 And with fine glamourie becharm'd the wood ; 
 He lost the fair sight, but the precious strain 
 
 Of silent music slid into his heart, 
 To be remember'd aye, and to remain 
 
 His winter sunshine or his summer smart. 
 But there were many pathways, and again 
 
 They met, and were not mute ; nor did he miss 
 The sweetest sweet that he might wish to gain — 
 
 Love quite at love with love, and kiss with kiss. 
 
AT THE FIFTH ACT. 105 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Amelia met another youth, with eyes 
 
 Of graver greeting, and of softer speech ; 
 And he had subtle songs of mysteries, 
 
 And wisdom truths romantic he could teach. 
 His name was Gilbert Gray, and never wight 
 
 Was bound in love with stronger sweeter band. 
 He saw her eyes, and, dreaming in the light. 
 
 He knew he loved Amelia Wetherland. 
 Nor had she for his love antipathy, 
 
 But a new passion that had quickly grown ; 
 So that she gave him her full sympathy. 
 
 And his red bud of promise was broad blown. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 But Edward came again, and simple love 
 
 Grew dearer than the days of deeper truth ; 
 And Gilbert, who had sat with stars above, 
 
 Was quite forsaken for another youth. 
 To-morrow morning, and the bridal band 
 
 Will be glad-hearted for the marriage-day 
 Of Edward and Amelia Wetherland, 
 
 And all will think of happiness who may ; 
 Love that is lost may turn a darker way. 
 
 And Gilbert he is sunk in malady. 
 So ends the fourth act ; morrow ends the play — 
 
 Will it be comedy or tragedy ? 
 
BY THE ORCHARD WALL. 
 
 When red autumn let the ripe apple fall, 
 
 And the tall g^rass caught it and laid it to rest 
 With a cool sweet kiss, in a green-covered nest. 
 
 The summer dreams sat by the orchard wall. 
 
 Side by side we sat with the dreams. 
 
 And the singing boughs in a trance 
 Sang the song of enchanted streams, 
 
 And the leaves danced a fairy dance. 
 The sun-eyed dreams were pure to meet, 
 
 Their foreheads were fair as milk ; 
 Their hair reached down to their feet. 
 
 Like buttercups spun to silk : 
 And the dreams had glorious eyes. 
 
 And kisses that charmed to a swoon : 
 They had stories of Paradise 
 
 That were as a heavenly boon ; 
 For they told not their tale in words, 
 
 But spoke to the soul in strains 
 Of music made by the birds 
 
 In unfrequented lanes. 
 
BY THE ORCHARD WALL. 107 
 
 When ripeness let the red apple fall, 
 
 And the cool grass caught it and laid it to rest. 
 With a gentle caress, in a shaded nest, 
 
 We sat with the dreams by the orchard wall. 
 
AN OLD PICTURE. 
 
 The picture shows her hand upon a skull, 
 And in between her fingers beautiful 
 Are some old graveyard thoughts put into rhyme, 
 And set down in small letters of old time : 
 "Nothing can save 
 
 Men from the grave ; 
 
 Nothing can heal 
 
 A fear we feel — 
 
 Ever to seem 
 
 Dead in a dream." 
 So run the first lines, with their charnel strife, 
 Between two fingers fine, and full with life. 
 
 It was a custom, and an aid to grace, 
 To paint Death's head below a living face. 
 What thought the artist ? " Maiden, learn the 
 
 truth ; 
 Take love, for this it is that follows youth : " 
 " Under the soil, 
 Curled in a coil 
 
AN OLD PICTURE. log 
 
 Of prison clay — 
 
 Shut from the day, 
 
 And laid down deep 
 
 In a death sleep." 
 But thoughts of death are not in her young mind. 
 For she is smiling, and her eyes are kind. 
 
 Why should a girl, with eyes of gentle fire. 
 Send her sweet thoughts into the churchyard mire? 
 Did she live to be three score years and ten, 
 And did she ever think about death then ? 
 "All who have breath 
 
 Must come to death, 
 
 And lie in the dust — 
 
 Unjust and just. 
 
 Nothing can save 
 
 Men from the grave." 
 The picture hangs above my shelves of books, 
 With these old verses under lovely looks. 
 
CHANGING PICTURES. 
 
 Where are the wild bells that were blue in May, 
 
 The roses that were red and white in June ? 
 Where are the birds that in the long sweet day 
 
 Charmed the green wood with many a merry 
 tune ? 
 We can but say that now they are not here, 
 
 That happy hours have gone with sunny skies, 
 That bright-eyed dreams are dying with the year, 
 
 And Summer in her silver coffin lies : 
 The leaves drop silently about her head — 
 They cannot live, now that their queen is dead. 
 
 Gone is the comfort of the beechen shade, 
 
 The morning scent and the cool sense of ease 
 That came when showers in the hot days made 
 
 A pleasant music in the full-leaved trees. 
 We cannot hear the babble of the brook, 
 
 Or see the swallows sailing in the sun ; 
 We can but on the fading pictures look, 
 
 While the harmonious colours rot and run, 
 And watch the boughs glow in thin autumn light. 
 Then turn as black as they before Vv'ere bright. 
 
CHANGING PICTURES. 
 
 And when the canvas is a cheerless thing, 
 
 And droumy days are full of fog again, 
 And winds that wuther in the wild nights swing 
 
 Upon the reeking poplars in the rain, 
 We'll tell old stories by the friendly fire, 
 
 And look at pictures painted by the men 
 Who sat with Summer that she might inspire 
 
 Their brains to take us back to her agen — 
 Such is their art that we have but to look 
 To be beside a blossom-covered brook. 
 
 And Winter, too, perhaps may make us smile 
 
 With his quaint drawings done in black and 
 white. 
 And then we may forget the flow'rs awhile. 
 
 As we forget the sunshine in the night : 
 Old Winter likes to tell a ghostly tale. 
 
 And with his pictures we may win delights — 
 What think you to a good ship in a gale, 
 
 Or frosted fields aglow with cottage lights ? 
 Or skaters blown about in sleety wind, 
 A red sun sinking in the mist behind ? 
 
 And then, O happy hope ! a little while 
 
 Will free the forest from its winter snow. 
 And oftentimes a beam of sun will smile 
 Upon the grass, and warmer winds will blow : 
 
CHANGING PICTURES. 
 
 New signs will come upon us day by day, 
 And Spring will waken every little tree, 
 
 And all our winter thoughts will drop away 
 With lilies and new leaves ; so will it be 
 
 Till Summer comes with many a woodland strain 
 
 To sing and paint her pictures o'er again. 
 
RUINED. 
 
 Here is my house ; shall I go in 
 
 With ruin round my face ? 
 I worked for many years to win 
 
 This proud and peaceful place ; 
 And now I dare not ring the bell. 
 
 Or move from my own door — 
 I dare not go, nor stay to tell 
 
 My wife that we are poor. 
 
 Now we must leave our wealthy toys, 
 And put our pride in pawn ; 
 
 We cannot play like girls and boys 
 At croquet on the lawn ; 
 
 I may no longer throw the fly 
 For trout in my own stream — 
 
 happy home ! my wife will cry, 
 Because it is a dream. 
 
 Love that rejoices in a cot 
 Is not the love for me, 
 
 1 should have what I shall have not 
 
 To be what I would be ; 
 
 I 
 
114 RUINED. 
 
 Now I must earn a workman's fee, 
 And perhaps my wife will stitch — 
 
 There is no peace in poverty 
 For men who have been rich. 
 
 A storm broods, and is coming near. 
 
 It suits my state of mind ; 
 The willows in their hour of fear 
 
 Turn white leaves to the wind. 
 The clouds, that erewhile hung aloof, 
 
 Meet, and the rain-drops fall ; 
 The tempest is about my roof — 
 
 About my heart, and all. 
 
WAITING FOR ESCORT. 
 
 How full of loss is love ! A fair girl's face 
 
 For lack of lover's lips may lose its light ; 
 And souls astray, that seek in vain the place 
 
 Where their love lies, may never live aright. 
 And when two kindred hearts in courtship meet. 
 
 And in the crowd unto each other cling, 
 He may be slowly drawn to other feet, 
 
 And she may hear a wealthy, wise man sing. 
 How many, without doubt, go hand in hand 
 
 Across the waves of passion's restless sea, 
 And find contentment in a quiet land ? — 
 
 I dare not think how many such there be. 
 A maiden by the flutter of her fan 
 May spoil the strong life of a bearded man. 
 
 ir. 
 
 And yet how full of gain is love ! Ah me ! 
 
 "What other thing could wear us to our woes 
 "When all our ways are strewn with treachery. 
 
 And we have friends who are but smiling foes ? 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 WAITING FOR ESCORT. 
 
 How could we live by them, and near them sleep, 
 
 And still find happy moments of relief ? 
 How could we from their throats our fingers keep. 
 
 But that the house of love would come to grief? 
 And when our paths are clear, and fleck'd with 
 sun, 
 
 And radiant flow'rs in moss-grown gardens lie. 
 Where peaceful days harmoniously run, 
 
 Love is the only sweet that will not die : 
 A faithful maid, and then a loving wife. 
 May give the poorest man the richest life. 
 
 III. 
 
 And yet how full of loss ! Eliza Lisle, 
 
 Long have I watched you in your maidenhood ; 
 And I have seen you by a careless smile' 
 
 Bring to the cheek a young man's eager blood. 
 When Donald came to woo your Spanish face, 
 
 I thought that some day he would come to wed ; 
 I know the night you promised, and the place. 
 
 And you were happy, though you no word said. 
 When morning woke with sparkle of wet grass. 
 
 And thin light on late summer's fading bloom. 
 You saw your face all laughter in the glass, 
 
 And sang a ballad ere you left your room — 
 
WA ITING FOR ESCORT. 1 1 7 
 
 Then like a beggar he must come, and so 
 You turned, and, hke a beggar, let him go. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is deep winter now in Donald's purse. 
 
 And in your thoughts he cannot play a part ; 
 But you have brought on him a greater curse. 
 
 And placed the depth of winter in his heart. 
 The thing you call your love is made, it seems, 
 
 Of such fine stuff it must have dainty fare ; 
 And now Sir Dummy Dawdle has sweet dreams. 
 
 Because you let him sit in Donald's chair. 
 He carries keys to open every door 
 
 That leads to gaiety and easy life, 
 And you may leave behind the staring poor, 
 
 And be a silk and satin, scented wife. 
 Love you your true love, be he rich or poor. 
 But do not leave him when he has no more. 
 
 This is a night of triumph, 'Liza Lisle ; 
 
 In your dark face your eyes like stars are set ; 
 Your pretty mouth has moved with many a smile 
 
 This day — this day that you will not forget. 
 Now you at last are ready for the ball. 
 
 In swathing clouds, a beautiful brunette ; 
 
H'AITING FOR ESCORT. 
 
 Why hastens not your lover through the hall 
 
 To look with pride upon his little pet ? 
 He will not please you more with song or jest ; 
 You will not dance to-night, nor hear the band- 
 He has a broken dagger in his breast, 
 
 And Donald has the red haft in his hand. 
 Now, lady, live the next hour as you may — 
 You laugh, but it is Donald comes this way. 
 
SUMMER'S WRAITH. 
 
 The sun went wanly down last night, 
 
 And the attendant clouds 
 Showed no rich colours in his light, 
 But hung about like shrouds ; 
 Nor were the wide hills robed with wonted gold, 
 But garmented with gloomy grey, and cold. 
 
 Soon, soon the bloom will find its blight ; 
 
 And soon the leaves will go. 
 In days that are not dark nor light — 
 That have not sun nor snow ; 
 With neither frost nor flow'rs to trim the lane ; 
 But sunless days, and starless nights, and rain. 
 
 I turned away with thoughts like these. 
 
 And went toward the wood ; 
 And when I reached the moveless trees, 
 A maid before me stood : 
 Some forest bloom s drooped from her girdle do wn , 
 With dew-drenched leaves, half yellow and half 
 brown. 
 
SUMMER'S WRAITH. 
 
 She seemed as in a world alone : 
 
 The wreath fell from her head ; 
 She sighed ; then, going, made a moan ; 
 And flow'rs dropped from her dead ; 
 And nothing more I saw of her, but heard 
 The sad song of a solitary bird. 
 
 Surely it was no mortal thing. 
 
 But summer's wraith, I saw ? 
 I stood and heard the murmuring, 
 Of trees struck with a flaw ; 
 And then there came a shock that chilled my 
 
 blood, 
 Of blund'ring winds bewintering the wood. 
 
A UTUMN RAIN. 
 
 The mornings come with a chill, 
 And mist by the meadow hedge ; 
 
 A cold wind creeps by the mill, 
 And tall reeds shrink in the sedge : 
 
 The brook has lost the swallow. 
 And the bush has lost its may ; 
 
 On upland and in hollow 
 There is decay. 
 
 The sparrows sit on the shed, 
 Sit and sit, and no word say ; 
 
 And the sun is blurred and red, 
 In sky that is gloomy and grey. 
 
 Men carry a load of care — 
 Children seem sadder at play, 
 
 For in the fields that were fair 
 There is decay. 
 
 The bare black branches shiver. 
 And shake dead leaves in the wet : 
 
AUTUMN RAIN. 
 
 The rain is on the river, 
 And fog in the city is set ; 
 
 And no birds fly in the air — 
 No flowers gladden the day, 
 
 For all that summer made fair 
 Is in decay. 
 
 The darkness comes, and a line 
 Of ghost-like lamps in the night, 
 
 With yellow dim lights, shine 
 On faces woefully white ; 
 
 No roses to scent the air — 
 No moonlit green tree way, 
 
 For in the world that was fair 
 There is decay. 
 
WAITING FOR WINTER. 
 
 The autumn colours deepen into gloom : 
 The cold winds come, and it is time to light 
 
 The first fire of the winter in my room, 
 
 To warm the hearth and make the ceiling 
 
 bright — 
 King Coal, I welcome you this dreary night. 
 
 Be kind to me, as you have ever been, 
 And do not chide because in sunny times 
 
 I quite forgot you under hedges green, 
 A-listening to the jocund summer chimes, 
 In dreams of dear new love and sweet old 
 rhymes. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, a brook in June 
 Has given greater joy than well-earned gold ; 
 
 And I have been the better for the tune. 
 But dearer are the stories you have told 
 When frosty wind has whistled on the wold. 
 
124 WAITING FOR WINTER. 
 
 Give me a sign ; yea, now I see the flames 
 In curling colours glow and rise and blend ; 
 
 Upon the embers are familiar names, 
 
 And well-known faces in the smoke ascend ; 
 And now I know that you are still my friend. 
 
 I sit before you with a pleasant fear 
 To see remembered pictures of dead days — 
 
 To watch myself walk through the dying year— 
 To meet my friends and foes by many ways, 
 And do my part in still unfinished plays. 
 
 I wait for winter and his wild, white nights, 
 And many of them will I spend with you ; 
 
 And my dull room shall then have fairy lights, 
 Reflected from your flames of red and blue ; 
 And many old tales shall be told anew. 
 
NOT FOR LOVE. 
 
 Helen was fair/ indeed, and I was free ; 
 But that which had been was not so to be — 
 My heart awoke, and Helen guided me ; 
 
 But not for love. 
 In winter deep I dreamt of summer shine, 
 And all my hopes were false as they were fine. 
 
 And I was happy then as I might be : 
 
 Warm spring had painted every field and tree ; 
 
 And Helen sang sweet ditties unto me ; 
 
 But not of love. 
 And I had looked upon her budded youth 
 As on a book of innocence and truth. 
 
 And knowing not of poison in the wine, 
 I said, " And may I link my life with thine ?" 
 She whispered, " Yes," and placed her hand in 
 mine ; 
 
 But not for love. 
 And I was in a sweet swoon of delight, 
 And thought it daytime in the depth of night. 
 
126 NOT FOR LOVE. 
 
 'Twas coming soon, too soon, when I should keep 
 My days in darkness and my eyes from sleep ; 
 When Helen, without sorrowing, should weep, 
 
 And not for love. 
 O that a maid should sigh upon her glove, 
 And mimic fondness where there is no love ! 
 
BRIDAL BELLS. 
 
 Who shall say 
 How happy Charlotte is to-day ! 
 She goes to church with blossoms white, 
 And to-night is her bridal night. 
 For her the village children go 
 To line the churchyard path, and throw 
 Fair forest favours at her feet : 
 For her, flags flutter in the street ; 
 There is sunlight under the leaves. 
 And the bride in her fancy weaves 
 Long pleasures for after days, 
 In summer's pleasant ways. 
 The night of waiting is done, 
 And love is crowned in the sun : 
 The glad bells ring, ding, ding-a-dong, 
 And laugh in the bridal song. 
 
 Who shall say 
 How sad Lucinda is to-day ? 
 At her window with eye-lids wet, 
 She remembers what others forget. 
 
128 BRIDAL BELLS. 
 
 Summer may come and south winds blow 
 
 Seed from the grass, and bees may go 
 
 Home with pilfered honey at eve, 
 
 And she forget it all to grieve. 
 
 She was won in an idle day, 
 
 Worn a little and thrown away ; 
 
 And he who wooed forgets it now 
 
 In church at his marriage vow. 
 
 The day of her hope is done, 
 
 And her love lies dead in the sun. 
 
 The sad bells ring, ding dong, ding dong, 
 
 And weep in the wedding song. 
 
WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 
 
 O THE dancing of the leaves. 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
 And the rushing noise of trees. 
 
 Shouting, shrieking_on the leas, 
 
 Like the sound of seething seas, 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
 O the bending of the boughs, 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 The moan and the quiver 
 Of reeds along the river — 
 That sink, and rise, and shiver — 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
 O the shifting of the clouds, 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 Sailing swiftly on between 
 The wide blue world and the green, 
 Throwing shadows o'er the sheen. 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
 K 
 
130 WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 
 
 O the drifting of the snow, 
 When the wind blows ! 
 Showing in the cold moonlight 
 Fallen trees hid under white, 
 Like great ghosts in bed at night, 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
 O the comfort of the fire, 
 
 When the wind blows ! 
 To hear the song and the chat 
 Of the kettle and the cat, 
 And the cricket on the mat, 
 When the wind blows ! 
 
THE BRET BY BELLS. 
 
 What a night for a walk by wood and moor ! 
 
 I cannot see you though I have your arm, 
 And we have seven miles to go before 
 
 We reach the gate, and Snarler gives th' alarm ! 
 At home they may be thinking we are lost, 
 
 Without the moon or stars to lend us light ; 
 There's not a thing to see, not even frost ; 
 
 At least they'll know that it is Tuesday night. 
 
 For more than thirty years our Bretby bells 
 
 Have rung on Tuesday nights in winter-time ; 
 They're rather cracked, but with them music swells 
 
 Sweeter than with a more harmonious chime : 
 You may trust to the bells on Tuesday night ; 
 
 A child may be born or a man may die. 
 It may rain or snow, or be dark or light. 
 
 But they always ring — I will tell you why. 
 
 You may hear them now though they're miles 
 away; 
 
 We could make for them in fog or in frost. 
 And while they are ringing we cannot stray 
 
 Far from our path on the moor,, and be lost : 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE BRETBY BELLS. 
 
 They know this at home when the hearth is 
 bright, 
 
 And fear will not make them stop in their song : 
 But why do they ring ev'ry Tuesday night ? 
 
 I will tell you why as we walk along. 
 
 Many years ago, before I was born, 
 
 Or steam to our village had made approach. 
 When the Bretby people could hear the horn 
 
 That was blown by the guard of the coming 
 coach, 
 There was an old parson called Peter Moss, 
 
 Who guided his flock in a godly way ; 
 Every Tuesday he walked to Dulmer Cross, 
 
 Out here by the moor, to preach and pray. 
 
 He used to leave Bretby soon after three. 
 
 To make the poor Dulmer people divine ; 
 For years he was home to his time for tea. 
 
 Which his wife had ready for him at nine. 
 One December night when the way was black, 
 
 It was thought that the parson was lost on the 
 moor ; 
 It was ten o'clock, and he was not back. 
 
 And at twelve he had not reached his door. 
 
THE BRETBY BELLS. 133 
 
 His wife had fallen asleep in her chair ; 
 
 She woke at the striking of twelve o'clock, 
 And a tempest was in the midnight air, 
 
 And her husband ! she had not heard him knock ! 
 She sat in despair — how the wind did shout ! 
 
 What could she do ? Her two sons were abed, 
 And asleep, and the village lights were out : 
 
 And where was her husband ? Perhaps he was 
 dead ! 
 
 Was he lost on the moors ? Upstairs she went. 
 
 While the wind was rising in moaning swells. 
 And in her despair her two sons she sent 
 
 With the key of the church to ring the bells. 
 While they went with a lantern, half asleep. 
 
 She ran to the ringers and waked them all : 
 Not one of them back to his bed did creep. 
 
 But each man was true to the good wife's call. 
 
 And they rang a mad peal with all their might. 
 
 That could have been heard to the end of the 
 moors, 
 And the village folk came out in the night 
 
 To wonder and stare at the cottage doors ; 
 Some thought the French were invading the land, > 
 
 That the men would be called away to fight. 
 And march from the village behind a band. 
 
 And they shivered and talked in the winter night. 
 
134 THE BRETBY BELLS. 
 
 A sound was heard in the early morn 
 
 Of a galloping horse in the frosty lane, 
 And old Peter Moss on the steed was borne, 
 
 To his Bretby home and his wife again. 
 He was lost till he heard the good bells ring ; 
 
 Then he found a horse, and he knew he was 
 right ; 
 He could hear the bells nearer and nearer sing ; 
 
 And that's why they're ringing and singing to- 
 night. 
 
WINTER WEATHER. 
 
 The bleached snow is come, and chill winds blow ; 
 Under the eaves are icicles a-row ; 
 And old men wheeze; the village milk-pails freeze, 
 And school-boys slide to school along the leas. 
 
 Cold stars alight in the clear keen night, 
 Stare on bleak moors with earnest eyes and bright ; 
 The fire-flames leap, and thither old wives creep ; 
 The cat is curled up on the hearth asleep. 
 
A BEGGAR MAN. 
 
 Who is this standing in the street 
 "With white face bending o'er bare feet ? 
 Why does he go about like that — 
 Without a coat, without a hat ? 
 He looks as though a little food 
 Would make him smile, and do him good. 
 And why does he not go away ? 
 He's talking now : what does he say ? 
 
 " Where shall I drag these bones of mine 
 That ache because my rags are thin ? 
 O for the food that even swine 
 
 May eat, and straw that they lie in ! 
 
 " How all the people pass me by 
 
 This Sabbath eve, and see me not ; 
 The many bells how joyously 
 
 They ring that care may be forgot ! 
 
A BEGGAR MAN. 137 
 
 " Yet if I were to ask for bread, 
 Or shelter from the bitter flaw, 
 I might be as a vagrant led. 
 To hear the mighty Christian law. 
 
 " Still let me not blaspheme, O Lord ! 
 
 Or speak Thy name with aught but good ; 
 They do abuse Thy Holy Word 
 As they abuse my want of food, 
 
 " For truly Thou didst go about 
 The Comforter of all poor men ; 
 Thou wouldst have surely found me out, 
 And bade me come to Thee again. 
 
 " The Church, how peacefully it stands, 
 With painted panes amongst the trees ; 
 The sinner clasps his jewelled hands. 
 And there are cushions for his knees. 
 
 " I will not judge, but only crave, 
 If thou shouldst give again to me 
 A loaf to eat, a pound to save, 
 That I the beggar man may see. 
 
 " Let me remember what I know. 
 And it will chain me to his side. 
 So that the beggar shall not go 
 
 Till we Thy blessings, Lord, divide." 
 
A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Away sleet ghosts in wild wind go ! 
 
 And the walls are white 
 
 In the winter night, 
 And cottage windows, rimm'd with snow. 
 
 Are red with red fire-light. 
 
 The moon sails in the stormy main, 
 
 To glide and to glance ; 
 
 And the shadows dance, 
 And fly together down the lane, 
 
 And round the haunted manse. 
 
 Here is the hamlet's quiet way ; 
 And here would I be. 
 Where the winds are free — 
 
 There is the city far away. 
 
 With lamps like lights at sea. 
 
ABEL RARE. 
 
 His head was bald, and white the hair 
 Upon the chin of Abel Kare ; 
 His legs were shrunken up, and thin, 
 And his big bones stretched out the skin ; 
 His eyes were dim, deep in the skull ; 
 And his cup of life with years was full. 
 The room was dark, and Abel Kare 
 Alone sat in a creaky chair 
 That mocked the cricket, and often too 
 Would mock the groan in the chimney flue ! 
 The wind it made the great trees shriek. 
 And bent their necks, and made them creak, 
 In ghostly voice (a little mouse 
 Came out to see what shook the house 
 And ran in fear), and the rush-made chair 
 Seemed glad of the howling in the air, 
 And cried and creaked to Abel Kare. 
 Abel sat alone in his room, 
 Watching the flame-light in the gloom — 
 Watching the fire-balls, seething white, 
 Turn red in the grate. " I'll have a light ; 
 
140 ABEL KARE. 
 
 I've a bottle, a candle too, 
 
 And I have gold — ah, ah !" Whew, whew ! 
 
 O heaven ! the screaming wind it blew 
 
 Down the chimney, round the house. 
 
 And to its hole the little mouse 
 
 Ran in fear ; and more red and red 
 
 Gleamed the embers, and overhead. 
 
 Above the housetops, louder blew 
 
 The wind, and fierce the tempest grew. 
 
 " How it blows ! I'll have a light ; 
 
 It is a very furious night ; 
 
 Who have not got them gold must fare 
 
 As cats and dogs," said Abel Kare. 
 
 The candle burnt a deadly flame. 
 
 And dark and darker the room became ; 
 
 Fiercer and redder the embers grew, 
 
 Louder and louder the wind it blew ! 
 
 And then — another rush-made chair ! 
 
 And in it another Abel Kare ! 
 
 Abel of flesh, to Abel of air, 
 
 Said, as he shifted back in his chair, 
 
 " What are you, and why do you stare ?" 
 
 Abel of shade, to Abel of blood, 
 
 Said, " I'm yourself, and nothing good. 
 
 Abel Kare, there's nougtut can save 
 
 A man from death, and from the grave. 
 
ABEL RARE. 141 
 
 All the world knows you're a miser, 
 
 And a scorner, a despiser, 
 
 And you shall gather scorn and hate — 
 
 You shall carry a golden weight. 
 
 Put all your money in a sack, 
 
 And carry it upon your back. 
 
 And find the man you turned away 
 
 In hungry craving yesterday ; 
 
 And you shall tread the crowded street. 
 
 And nothing drink, and nothing eat 
 
 Until the beggar->man you meet ; 
 
 And if you find him not you die, 
 
 And in your grave the gold shall lie. 
 
 To shame you in your second day. 
 
 Now get your gold, and come away." 
 
 Abel of shade and Abel of bone 
 
 Went in the snow and the windy moan ; 
 
 And many years they have been gone. 
 
 Abel of blood carried the sack 
 
 With all his gold upon his back, 
 
 And with his weight he walked before. 
 
 Abel of shade a coffin bore ; 
 
 A plate was on the lid, and there 
 
 Was the name of Abel Kare. 
 
SIGH NOT SO. 
 
 Sigh not so for summer weather — 
 For the hot sun and the blaze 
 
 Of the bloom upon the heather ; 
 
 Sigh not so for summer weather, 
 And the glory of long days. 
 
 Winter holds a friendly hand, 
 
 With a quaint book of romance, 
 Written in old Wonderland, 
 While the fairies, hand in hand, 
 Joined their laughter with the dance. 
 
 There are flow'rs of purest white 
 In his book, and you may fmd 
 Pictures painted in the night, 
 When the land with snow was white. 
 And the trees were bent with wind. 
 
 Many ballads of the brave — 
 
 Many legends of the just — 
 Many songs for love to save, 
 Sung in castles of the brave 
 
 That have crumbled into dust. 
 
SIGH NOT SO. 1^3 
 
 Sigh not so for summer weather — 
 
 For the sun, and greenwood ways : 
 Let us go along together, 
 Thankful for the winter weather, 
 And the promise of new days. 
 
THE COMING SNOW. 
 
 The clouds were copper-dyed all day, 
 And struggled in each other's way, 
 Until the darkness drifted down 
 To the summer-forsaken town. 
 
 Said people passing in the lane, 
 
 " It will be snow," or " 'Twill be rain ;" 
 
 And school-bairns laughing in a row, 
 
 Looked through the panes, and wished for snow. 
 
 The swollen clouds let nothing fall. 
 But gath'ring gloom that covered all ; 
 Then came a wind and shook his wings. 
 And curled the dead leaves into rings. 
 
 He made the shutters move and crack. 
 And hurtled round the chimney-stack ; 
 Then he swept on to shake the trees, 
 Until they moaned like winter seas. 
 
 Soon he went whistling o'er the hill, 
 
 And all the trees again stood still ; 
 
 Then through the dark the snow came down, 
 
 And whitened all the sleeping town. 
 
THE COMING OF THE SNOW. 145 
 
 The keen stars looked out through the night, 
 And flecked the boughs with flakes of light ; 
 Then moving clouds revealed the moon 
 That made on earth a fairy noon. 
 
 Then Winter went unto his throne, 
 That with a million diamonds shone ; 
 A crown of stars was on his head, 
 And round him his great robes were spread. 
 
 At morn the bairns laughed with delight 
 To see the fields and hedges white, 
 And folks said as they hurried past, 
 " Good morning ! winter's come at last." 
 
BURNT WINGS. 
 
 How deep a life has love ! Three years of pain 
 
 Have not aroused me from my overthrow ; 
 Three summers washed with show'rs of scented 
 rain — 
 
 Three winters whitened with the silent snoW, 
 Have left me comfortless, and like to one 
 
 Who stands half conscious in a crowded street, 
 And seeking for his mem'ry that is gone, 
 
 Forgets the purpose that should guide his feet. 
 
 where is Pity, that a maid should say 
 Sweet things unfelt and blight a life in play ? 
 
 And where is Reason, that a man should cling 
 To dead dreams and delusions of his youth ; 
 
 Is life so small that I may only sing 
 
 One song, and die because of one untruth ? 
 
 No, I am young in earth's great wilderness 
 Of beauties ; why then faint upon the brink ? 
 
 1 will go forward for new happiness, 
 
 And in the search forget the broken link. 
 
BURNT WINGS. 147 
 
 Forget ? I do forget myself indeed, 
 
 To think that Reason should have pow'r to plead. 
 
 Oh such a quest how find Promethean sparks, 
 
 With passions locked up and the gold key lost ; 
 I should mistake all weathercocks for larks, 
 
 And meadow mist of Summer morn for frost. 
 I cannot bid one half my heart be still, 
 
 And if I could, it is not in my power ; 
 A maid to gratify her own sweet will. 
 
 Asked for my love to wear it as a flower — 
 
 what a hope of joy ! What need to say 
 
 1 gave it, and she flung the thing away. 
 
 L 2 
 
POVERTY'S WINTER. 
 
 Rain is making rings on the river, 
 
 And dead leaves in the black trees shiver ; 
 
 Desolate sparrows under the shed, 
 
 Dream of the summer and crumbs of bread. 
 
 O the rain in the cold winter time ! 
 And bitter bread that is bought by crime ! 
 The fog and frost from morning till night, 
 Nor coals to burn nor candles to light. 
 
 The time is coming ; summer is dead ; 
 Winter thickens the clouds overhead ; 
 And soon the snow will lie at the door, 
 And the poor will know that they are poor. 
 
JE VOUS ADORE. 
 
 I WILL not say you're fairer far 
 Than angels that in heaven are ; 
 I will not falsely flatter you, 
 But I will tell you what is true — 
 
 Je vous adore. 
 Mon amie ch6rie, je vous adore. 
 
 I knew you for a little while — 
 I heard your voice, I saw you snaile ; 
 And as you moved among the throng, 
 I looked, and learnt this two-line song — 
 
 Je vous adore. 
 Mon amie ch6rie, je vous adore. 
 
 The night died out, the morning came. 
 The big sun set the sea aflame : 
 We walked together by the sands 
 And waves sang as we joined our hands- 
 
 Je vous adore. 
 Mon amie ch6rie, je vour adore. 
 
150 yB VOUS ADORE. 
 
 Dim evening faded into night, 
 ■ The yellow moon turned small and white, 
 And, floating o'er the trees, the chime 
 Of curfew bells breathed out the rhyme — 
 
 Je VOUS adore. 
 Mon amie ch6rie, je vous adore. 
 
 When sails the ship that brings me home 
 To friends, and fields we used to roam, 
 Will it be well for me to sing 
 This posy of a lover's ring — 
 
 I Je VOUS adore. 
 
 Mon amie chdrie, je vous adore ? 
 
THE FIRST SNOWFALL. 
 
 The leafless trees were black and wet, 
 Half hid in chilly" mist, last night — 
 
 This morn each wears a coronet, 
 With purest crystal fires alight. 
 
 We in the dark with dreams were still. 
 When silently the elves came down, 
 
 To throw a great robe round the hill. 
 And muffle all the sleeping town. 
 
 The sceptre is in Winter's hand — 
 His willing troop of Northern fays 
 
 Have thrown his jewels o'er the land. 
 In their enchanted midnight maze. 
 
 The hall seems, as it stands alone 
 With red sun on its frosted panes. 
 
 Like a palace to dreamers shown 
 In a proud fairy lord's domains. 
 
152 THE FIRST SNOWFALL. 
 
 Here is the robin, welcome guest ; 
 
 And he is cheerful in the flaw — 
 The amulet upon his breast 
 
 Will shield him in the icy shaw. 
 
 Bright bird, you bring again the joys 
 That made us happy long ago, 
 
 When we were little girls and boys — 
 When first we saw you in the snow. 
 
 How merry will the children be 
 When they awake ! It makes me smile 
 
 To think how they will shout to see 
 
 White fields and woods for many a mile ! 
 
 What a sweet wonder is the year, 
 With seasons charming all our days ! 
 
 We wait for Winter with some fear, 
 But beauty is in all his ways. 
 
DEAD DAYS. 
 
 I CANNOT let lost life with lost years go — 
 I must look back to what I used to know, 
 
 And looking weep : 
 I must remember that my double life 
 Of happiness is now a single strife, 
 
 And that you sleep 
 All through the longest days of summer glow, 
 And through the longest nights of winter snow. 
 
 Love played with us in youth time, and he came 
 Along with us in after-days the same, 
 
 With joy and rest ; 
 The pleasant months grew into changing years. 
 And changing pleasures chided little fears 
 
 From our sweet nest : 
 I must remember that my whole life grew 
 In fairer, braver ways, because of you. 
 
154 DEAD DAYS. 
 
 I cannot help my heart, my tears must flow, 
 And though the sun is on me, I must know 
 
 A day that died ; 
 The frightened clock ran down — O, bitter spite ! — 
 From twelve at noon to twelve o'clock at night ; 
 
 And fever-eyed, 
 I live in body, but my heart is dead 
 Like a dry leaf upon a spider's thread. 
 
 Death is the price and penalty of life ; 
 Our vow was — till he parted us, lost wife ; 
 
 Yet thought we not 
 That one would die, and one find months and years 
 Blank days made up of neither hopes nor fears. 
 
 It is the lot 
 Of all ; to meet again an old faith too ; 
 God of us all ! what if it should be true ? 
 
WINTER WALKS. 
 
 Pleasant it is in the morning to see 
 The snow untrodden ; the frost on the tree ; 
 To face the bleak wind, and merrily go 
 On foot to the town in a healthy glow. 
 
 Pleasant it is in the night to retreat 
 
 From the flaring gas in the noisy street — 
 
 To leave the shops, and the crush, and the cars, 
 
 For the country, keen skies, and crowds of stars. 
 
MY LADY'S FAVOURS. 
 
 You have not seen my Bessie ? — beauty Bess — 
 
 She is a shrew, a very pretty shrew ; 
 Cheeks hke a blush-rose leaf, sweet eyes and lips, 
 Belong to Bessie, and she knows it, too, 
 
 And it has taught her coquetry, 
 She will not be what I would be — 
 If I be so, why then so is not she. 
 
 If I am shy at Bessie, bonny Bess, 
 
 She looks and laughs, and is not shy at me ; 
 But if I show her that I am not shy. 
 She glances down, and very shy is she ; 
 
 There's nought, not even flattery, 
 Will bid her be as I would be — 
 If I do so, why then so does not she. 
 
 If I but smile at Bessie, beauty Bess, 
 
 Straightway she turns aside and seems amiss ; 
 But if I seem amiss and go away, 
 
 She comes with loving looks to beg a kiss ; 
 Nor coolness nor civility 
 Will bid her be as I would be — 
 If I agree, why then so does not she. 
 
MY LADTS FAVOURS. 157 
 
 If I be dull, my Bessie, beauty Bess, 
 
 Will mock a sigh, and titter and be glad ; 
 If I be boisterous and very blythe, 
 O very still is she and very sad ! 
 
 Big boldness nor meek modesty 
 Will bid her be as I would be — 
 If I would so, why then so would not she. 
 
 And yet I love my Bessie, birdie Bess ! 
 
 And I shall ask a question : if a nay 
 Be her reply, I'll tell her woman's nay 
 Is but a yea, so be it nay or yea, 
 
 'Twill bid her be as I would be. 
 So once I think we shall agree. 
 And when I go to church, why so will she. 
 
ON THE HILL. 
 
 Here is the hamlet on the hill, 
 
 The city is below ; 
 And here men's hearts and homes are still, 
 
 And there they are not so — 
 The snow is white upon the hill, 
 
 And it is black below. 
 
 Here is the hamlet and its rest, 
 
 But little rest below ; 
 And here the life we love the best, 
 
 Where winds untainted blow ; 
 And here the peace and here the rest 
 
 That are unknown below. 
 
ENCHANTED EMBERS. 
 
 When bright flames flicker o'er the burning coal, 
 And throw gaunt shadows on the dusky walls, 
 
 And my black cat sits by the mouse's hole 
 With two round glaring eyes like fiery balls. 
 
 Then in the ruddy, sympathetic blaze 
 
 I see old firiends and live in olden days. 
 
 Live o'er again a time that was to this 
 As sunny summer is to winter's cold : 
 
 As restless troubles are compared with bliss, 
 Are present days compared with days of old. 
 
 What now is out of reach I wish it here, 
 
 And that which cannot be is doubly dear. 
 
 See, in the dreamy glamour of the grate 
 Come the quaint pictures of my boyhood's prime; 
 
 I swing again upon the farmer's gate, 
 
 And hear the sheep bells, and the evening chime 
 
 Floating o'er gabled roofs with drowsy hum, 
 
 And telling of the happy days to come. 
 
i6o ENCHANTED EMBERS. 
 
 Days that have come, alas ! without the joy, 
 Without the golden hours, without the wealth. 
 
 And all the fame I dreamt of as a boy 
 
 Full of high hope, and bright with rosy health, 
 
 I did not think of weary ways beset 
 
 With sickness, death, and with continual fret. 
 
 I did not think on't then, nor will I now, 
 
 Although 'twill come with sunlight on the 
 morrow — 
 
 Thy aid, forgetfulness ! O teach me how 
 
 To banish all remorseful thoughts of sorrow ; 
 
 O let not penury have power to craze. 
 
 And keep calamity from out the blaze. 
 
 Ah ! now I see the house where I was born, 
 The sleepy village, and the pebbled brook ; 
 
 The meadow pathway, daisy-edged and worn, 
 The lazy mill and many a woodland nook 
 
 Where I have stayed whole hours, 'neath oak trees 
 hoary. 
 
 Deep in the spell of some fantastic story. 
 
 Dim legends that of chivalry do tell, 
 
 Of Arthur bold, and of the Red Cross Knight 
 
 Who overcame the power of magic spell. 
 And with the fearful Dragon fiend did fight. 
 
ENCHANTED EMBERS. i6i 
 
 For love of that fair lady, Una hight, 
 And for the love of Errantry's bright light. 
 
 Why mingle in imaginary strife ? 
 
 Why dream of poets and of old-world lore ? 
 Of honeyed peace and simple country life, 
 
 To make the city duller than before ? 
 No, let us not repine in murky weather, 
 The sun will shine again and gild the heather. 
 
 The mystic flowers of romance have grown 
 To mandrakes, and no more are friends of mine ; 
 
 The veil is ta'en away, and truth hath thrown. 
 The root of hemlock in the fairy wine. 
 
 And what was once a solace now destroys. 
 
 So the rude Real slays fair Fancy's joys. 
 
 Ah ! . . . Hedges are just washed with April 
 rain,* 
 
 And shimmer softly in the noonday light. 
 Cold shadows chase each other o'er the plain. 
 
 Coming and gliding by in dreamy flight, 
 
 * The writer wishes to state that this line was not taken 
 from Longfellow's " Keramos " : 
 
 " ' Just washed by gentle April rains.' " 
 
 "Keramos'' was published in 1878. "Enchanted Embers,'" 
 the writer's first published verses, appeared in the Dark Blue 
 magazine about 1870 or 1871. The writer may also state, in 
 reply to several who have mentioned the matter, that 
 
 M 
 
162 ENCHANTED EMBERS. 
 
 And trembling leaves, with swelling buds between, 
 Make up a charm of blushing white and green. 
 
 And now 'tis summer, and sweet gossamer 
 Is hung from twig to twig for elves to swing 
 
 By moonlight when rude feet are not astir. 
 When bright Titania bids her birdie sing ; 
 
 When Oberon cheers the happy band, and when 
 
 Puck tells of all his gambols among men. 
 
 I see a cosy room with ivy sprays 
 
 That tap the panes and through the window peep. 
 And on the hearthrug, where a kitten plays. 
 
 A boy sets up tin soldiers half asleep. 
 The cricket chirups, and a tall brown clock 
 Conducts the kettle's song with steady knock. 
 
 E'en now I cannot tell you what I see — 
 It is too full of hazy joy to preach ; 
 
 If heart-throbs and big tears could speak for me. 
 Then I should be more eloquent in speech : 
 
 ! cherished home and friends true to the core, 
 
 1 never knew how dear ye were before ! 
 
 he did not take his title " Aftermath " from the same source 
 the verses with this title having appeared years before in 
 Cassell's Magazine. 
 
BY THE HEARTH. 
 
 The dark lane is lonely to night : 
 How the tempest shrieks ! 
 And the great oak creaks 
 
 And groans in the furious fight. 
 
 Let us put down the blind, and turn 
 
 From the window-pane, 
 
 And the wind and rain. 
 To the tea and the singing urn. 
 
 The children, with bright happy looks. 
 
 Have covered the floor 
 
 With a motley store 
 Of their toys and their fairy-books. 
 
 Of the spring and the summer we tire. 
 
 But we may find joy 
 
 To last and not cloy. 
 At play with the bairns by the fire. 
 
 M 2 
 
i64 BY THE HEARTH. 
 
 Town gaieties who can endure ? 
 The hfe that is best 
 We find when we rest 
 
 At home by the hearth — it is pure- 
 
HOW LONG ? 
 
 How long shall I wait for my love, how long ? 
 
 When shall I see him and know he is mine ? 
 In spring I was joyous, for hope was strong. 
 
 But the spring was lost in the summer shine. 
 And he came not — O Love ! how long ? 
 
 For lazy hours in the flowering June, 
 
 I waited, and wandered to meet my fate. 
 
 And I bowed, as lovers will, to the moon, 
 For luck in my love, but my truant mate 
 Came not, and I had still to wait. 
 
 The comfortless autumn came with its gloom, 
 And I sat by the fire long, lonely nights, 
 
 With the weary clock in my dingy room, 
 Still looking for love in the ember lights ; 
 Till I began to fear my doom. 
 
166 HOW LONG? 
 
 Now meadows are muffled with moveless snow. 
 And winter again is cruel and strong ; 
 
 He has frozen my heart, and now I know 
 The truth at last — that to death I belong, 
 And not to Love — O Death ! how long ? 
 
A WHITE WOOD. 
 
 The wood is white with feathered fans of snow, 
 And with the burden barren boughs are bent ; 
 And when the frosty winter wind doth blow, 
 A pearly dust unto the path is sent : 
 And the stream lies dead 
 In an icy bed ; 
 But fairies have covered her brow with beads. 
 And hung crystal crowns on willows and weeds ; 
 
 And in the spring 
 
 Throstles shall sing, 
 And daisies shall dot the green of the grass. 
 For girls and for boys to pluck as they pass ; 
 
 And the stream shall awake 
 To rejoice in the day, 
 
 And with love-laughter shake 
 All the flowers on its way ; 
 And there shall be clusters of red and white may — 
 A fair moon by night and a fine sun by day. 
 
i68 A WHITE WOOD. 
 
 But the wide wood is white 
 
 In this time of blight, 
 And the sun is but showing 
 
 A shadow of Hght, 
 And the darkness is growing 
 
 Before it is night. 
 
 A sadness doth fill 
 
 The dale and the hill — 
 
 The robin seems chill 
 In the tree that is black, 
 In the wood that is still ; 
 
 And white in a swoon 
 
 Sun sinks, and the moon 
 Is beginning to float, 
 Like a pale phantom boat ; 
 And the cottage smoke curls up in a dream 
 
 Of despair and of doom. 
 
 And is lost in the gloom 
 That gathers and reddens the firelight gleam. 
 
 Let us leave this white wood, and thoughts that 
 
 are dire. 
 For the warmth of the hearth and the flame of 
 
 the fire. 
 
THE GARDEN SEAT. 
 
 The garden-seat was overgrown in spring 
 
 With young, sweet flowers swathed in purest 
 green ; 
 I saw a little child her toy-book bring, 
 
 With pictures of the fays and fairy queen ; 
 She played in wonderment upon the seat, 
 
 And laughed, with laughing blossoms o'er her 
 head ; 
 She sat with daisies round about her feet, 
 
 Till she was called to supper and to bed. 
 
 The seat in summer-tide was in the shade 
 
 mingling boughs that swayed unto the 
 ground. 
 And flecked the path, and pleasant music made ; 
 And bees were buzzing in the blooms around : 
 A maiden with a book of love-tales came, 
 
 And read a sweet romance, to her all truth ; 
 She closed the book, and whispered some one's 
 name, 
 Then went away to meet a favoured youth. 
 
lyo THE GARDEN SEAT. 
 
 when misty autumn came, and currants hung 
 
 In heavy, ripened clusters by the wall, 
 Chill winds came from the meadow-lands and 
 swung 
 
 The coloured trees that let their jewels fall : 
 Upon the seat a married couple stayed, 
 
 With just a touch of care in their content ; 
 They watched the leaves that on the dry path 
 played, 
 
 Then arm-in-arm away they slowly went. 
 
 When winter earned and all the flow'rs were lost,. 
 
 And cold winds shrieked, and trees were black 
 and barfe, 
 The garden seat was whitened with the frost. 
 
 And sparrows hopped in vain for crumbles there r 
 An old man came alone, with pale cheeks worn. 
 
 And sat till night, and then he did riot go ; 
 The snow fell with the dark, and in the morn 
 
 The old man yet was there — still as the snow» 
 
A DECEMBER DAISY. 
 
 Lone daisy dying in the winter wind, 
 
 Did I not touch you in the early year ? 
 Or was it one I may no longer find 
 
 That graced the gay green where you now 
 appear ? 
 About dead leayes were hanging new blue-bells ; 
 
 The brook was singing in the wood, and oft 
 I heard the cuckoo call from distant dells 
 
 To young birds learning carols in the croft. 
 
 But now old men, that in the summer day 
 Sat sunning on the ale-bench by the wall, 
 
 Are shut indoors to nod dark hours away. 
 And listen to the bits of snow that fall 
 
 Down the short cottage chimney. Summer's fire 
 
 That warmed the heart is out ; her flowers are 
 
 lost. 
 
 And crushed with moorland moss to moorland 
 mire. 
 
 And burnt with coals or chilled to death writh 
 
 frost. 
 
172 A DECEMBER DAISY. 
 
 But you are left, though what were sighing trees 
 
 Are now black fiends, and shake down ghostly 
 songs 
 That withering winds bring from the winter seas, 
 
 Where ships go down and mortals die in throngs.' 
 Why are you here when all your mates are gone 
 
 To that bright "londe of faery" whence they 
 came? 
 Are you a failing and forgotten one 
 
 That may not have a place nor yet a name ? 
 
 It may be so, for I remember well 
 
 You brought to mind a sweet and healthy child 
 When you were young ; but now you seem to tell 
 
 Of some poor girl forgotten and defiled. 
 When winds came lightly on you from the south, 
 
 Your petals all were fresh from core to end. 
 And full of honey for the spoiler's mouth. 
 
 But in your need you cannot gain a friend. 
 
 And why should I stand in the misty rain, 
 
 And talk to you that cannot give reply ? 
 Why should I with a sicken'd soul complain, 
 
 Because a little daisy will not die ? 
 The next cart-wheel that meets you with a groan 
 
 May crush you to a grave beneath the rut ; 
 Then why should I stand here and make a moan 
 
 As though the senses of my eyes were shut ? 
 
A DECEMBER DAISY. 175 
 
 It is because I may not lose the past, 
 
 And quite forget the sweet things that have been j 
 'Tis true the winter gloom has overcast 
 
 The land, and blackened branches" that were 
 green ; 
 But I must still remember summer lanes. 
 
 And think with thanks of birds that used to sing 
 And you are dearer, brighter for your stains. 
 
 Amongst the happy mem'ries of the spring. 
 
 You cannot die, and you have not enough 
 
 Of fairness left to tempt a truant hand 
 To pluck you from the daddock in the clough. 
 
 And give your spirit to the summer land : 
 Come, I will free you from your prison tree, 
 
 And for old days will bless you as I bow ; 
 When there is nothing left on earth for me 
 
 May I be taken as I take you now. 
 
PICTURES ON THE PANES. 
 
 How many pictures are there here, 
 Upon the frozen panes this morn ; 
 
 There is a river, broad and clear. 
 And silver ships are on it borne. 
 
 And further on the palace-domes 
 Of some bright eliin city shine ; 
 
 And there are many stately homes 
 Of merchants rich in wheat and wine. 
 
 Instead of coloured flow'rs of scent, 
 The plants with diamonds are arrayed ; 
 
 And trees with golden fruit are bent 
 O'er garden walls of jewels made. 
 
 And far away, the fair clouds kiss 
 The snowy tops of tor and hill — 
 
 Was ever picture like to this ? 
 Here is a real running rill ! 
 
PICTURES ON THE PANES. 175 
 
 And now the city, struck with fire, 
 Is changed into a burning plain. 
 
 O ! what has made this mischief dire ? 
 It is the sun upon the pane. 
 
 The hills themselves with fire are bound ; 
 
 They slip, and on the city fall, 
 And crush it down into the ground, 
 
 And there is ruin over all ! 
 
 And now no palaces appear ; 
 
 There is no city red with flame ; 
 Not anything of it is here — 
 
 But water on the window-frame. 
 
 The meadows that indeed I see. 
 
 In winter winds their joys have lost ; 
 
 But in the spring-time they will be 
 Fairer than pictures in the frost. 
 
SIMPLICITY. 
 
 With braided hair, a gentle girl. 
 
 In hazel nook, 
 
 Beside a brook 
 Flowing in many a playful twirl. 
 
 And by her side a bonny boy 
 
 (Whose wooly breed 
 
 At leisure feed) 
 Saith she may fill his years with joy. 
 
 No titles, gilded halls, or wealth, 
 
 No marriage dower — 
 
 A kiss, a flower, 
 No blessings save content and health. 
 
 Two children of forgotten race. 
 
 When men were good. 
 
 And woman's blood 
 The only colouring for her face. 
 
SIMPLICITY. 177 
 
 How sweet to leave the noisy strife, 
 
 And dwell with thee, 
 
 Simplicity : 
 Love lasting and a quiet life ! 
 
WHILE THE SNOW FALLS. 
 
 While the snow falls I can see 
 Pictures in my memory ; 
 Many seasons they have lain 
 In some corner of the brain, 
 Covered up with meaner things 
 That our daily striving brings ; 
 But this charm of mingling white 
 Has restored them to the light. 
 They before me are as plain 
 As the bow made in the rain 
 By the sun in summer days. 
 
 Many whitened winter ways 
 In a wind-blown town I see, 
 That in old days was to me 
 Happier than aught now can be. 
 That was ere this aged face 
 Had been furrowed in the race. 
 Had been worn by fight or fear, 
 Had but known the childish tear. 
 
WHILE THE SNOW FALLS. 179 
 
 I can see myself in school, 
 
 Near the master on his stool ; 
 
 Snow is scrabbling on the pane, 
 
 Dancing all along the lane ; 
 
 It is hissing in the fire. 
 
 And it hides the old church spire : 
 
 Slowly, slowly fades the light. 
 
 Gently, strangely comes the night ; 
 
 This may not be much to see, 
 
 But it has a charm for me. 
 
 That would sooner wet my cheek, 
 
 Than the words that men can speak. 
 
 While the snow falls I can hear 
 Songs that made the old home dear ; 
 What shall ever come again 
 Like a mother's simple strain ? 
 What shall make the heart rejoice 
 Like a father's ringing voice ? 
 Years have gone by, one by one ; 
 Songs and singers too are gone ; 
 Time, who teaches us too late 
 What is good in our estate. 
 Comes in after years to show 
 What we let so lightly go. 
 When it is too late for blessing 
 Those who tired not in caressing. 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o WHILE THE SNOW FALLS. 
 
 While the snow falls — nay, no more, 
 Sorrowing will not joys restore ; 
 Though of much we are bereft, 
 Still we all have something left. 
 
THE LADY OF BLACK FRIARS. 
 
 The trees all. silent in the blue morn stood, 
 
 And frosted leaves were lit with many lights 
 Of suns in miniature, when through the wood 
 
 Rode first King James of Scotland and his 
 knights : 
 Their hearts were bent upon a feast at Perth — 
 
 A time to love a lady and be merry ; 
 And they were full of badinage and mirth, 
 
 Until the white road took them to the ferry ; 
 Then laughter left them, for a woman came 
 With evil speech, and called the king by name. 
 
 She faced them all, and raised her bony hand. 
 
 And lifted up her wan and wither' d face : 
 " My lord, the great King of the Northern Land, 
 
 This ferry leads unto your burial-place ! 
 Seek not for Charon and his boat of death, 
 
 Nor laugh at my foreknowledge of the truth ; 
 Your life is but a thing of one day's breath. 
 
 If you reck not the warning word of Ruth : 
 
i82 THE LADY OF BLACK FRIARS. 
 
 I am a prophetess, and know the sorrow 
 That may or may not come upon the morrow." 
 
 He laugh'd aloud, but in his heart was fear, 
 
 For in a book of mystery he had read 
 A king in Scotland should be slain that year. 
 
 And he bethought the year was nearly dead ; 
 But how could he, in all his bravery, 
 
 Confess before his knights in humble voice 
 That he had faith in woman's dreamery ? — 
 
 The king of power could not be king of choice ; 
 And so he cross'd the river, and she stood 
 In silence watching them on Charon's flood. 
 
 The winter moon on sleeping thorps look'd down, 
 
 Andshow'd the traveller distant halls and spires ; 
 Keen frost went silently about the town. 
 
 And silver'd o'er the Abbey of Black Friars. 
 Inside the abbey love danced in the halls. 
 
 And firelight on fair faces threw its gloss ; 
 Outside, where ivy on the aged walls 
 
 Had written legends that were bound with moss, 
 A woman stood, a diddering sad thing. 
 Shut out because she went to warn the king. 
 
THE LADY OF BLACK FRIARS. 183 
 
 " For well I know," she said, " that on this night 
 
 Comes Graham from the mountains with his 
 men ; 
 The king, because he does not heed the light, 
 
 Shall never see the sun or me again." 
 The king had sent the prophetess away. 
 
 And he was telling guests, with wine made merry, 
 How the mad crone had met him on that day. 
 
 And dared him and his knights to cross the 
 ferry ; 
 But ere he ended, hearts were struck wfth fear. 
 For noise of men in armour they could hear ! 
 
 Then came the clash of swords in wild uproar. 
 
 And torches flash'd the windows with red light ; 
 ' ' Conceal the king, and double bolt the door. 
 
 Till he has time to fit himself for flight ! " 
 The bolt was gone ! the men were hot in chase ! 
 
 Then Catherine Douglas ran to make or mar, 
 And with celestial beauty in her face 
 
 Lifted her arm and placed it as a bar ! 
 A moment more, and swords were through to 
 
 wrench 
 The door, but she stood there and did not blench ; 
 
 Until her arm was broken, and she fell 
 With pallid mouth aswoon upon the floor ; 
 
i84 THE LADY OF BLACK FRIARS. 
 
 And then rush'd in the ruthless hounds of hell, 
 To make the feasting scene a scene of gore. 
 
 None thought of that brave lady who had done 
 A deed full worthy of her Douglas blood. 
 
 December's dreary days were well-nigh run — 
 The year was passing to oblivion's flood, 
 
 But ere it went out with the sobbing rain, 
 
 'Twas known a king in Scotland had been slain. 
 
WE WILL HOLD OUR OWN. 
 
 While there are men upon our British earth 
 Who love the Northern, free land of their birth, 
 Throughout the world let it be known 
 That we will guard and hold our own — 
 That we will beat the same old bounds, 
 Rememb'ring what are English grounds ; 
 Rememb'ring too what fields were stained 
 With British blood ere they were gained. 
 
 Shall we our fathers' work forget ? 
 
 No, let us hold their prizes yet ! 
 
 And, fighting only for the right, 
 
 Keep England's name and honour bright. 
 
 The ewels of our honoured British crown 
 Were won by fighting sires of great renown, 
 Who loved their homes but did not fear, 
 To face the robber drawing near : 
 They forfeited their ease and blood 
 To keep the name of England good, 
 And with their swords they made a way 
 For rights we must uphold to day : 
 
i86 WE WILL HOLD OUR OWN. 
 
 Shall we their giants' work forget ? 
 
 No, let us hold their prizes yet ; 
 
 And, fighting only for the right. 
 
 Keep England's name and honour bright. 
 
 Our fathers took the fields and faced the guns 
 Not for themselves alone, but for their sons ; 
 We must be worthy of their fame. 
 Or our own sons will blush for shame ; 
 So let it through the world be known 
 That we will surely hold our own, 
 And still be ready with our blood 
 To keep our fathers' honour good : 
 
 Shall we their giants' work forget ? 
 
 No, let us hold their prizes yet ! 
 
 And fighting only for the right, 
 
 Keep England's name and honour bright. 
 
CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. 
 
 Dear heart, I bless you for this parting grace, 
 
 That is as sunshine on a winter day ; 
 Now that last looks may be upon your face, 
 
 There nothing is can wound me on my way ; 
 Filling my prison with a light divine, 
 
 My queen, you come as does a saintly moon. 
 And I forget the dark clouds while you shine, 
 
 And take no heed of that which will be soon. 
 Was ever fate like mine ? go dark and sweet ? 
 Love's feast before me, and I may not eat — 
 
 Love's feast, for I have won your heart at last. 
 
 And may not tarry for a lover's kiss ; 
 But rich reward for future pain and past 
 
 Is this one hour — this present hour of bliss. 
 What though another night shall find me dead. 
 
 With no more sense of love and summer morn ? 
 I lived to put a crown upon my head 
 
 That shall be with me in the time unborn ; 
 
CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. 
 
 Nor may I be deceived with dying breath — 
 Speech is prophetic on the day of death. 
 
 Trust me, my perfect love, this midnight walk 
 
 Is but a fretful prologue to the play — 
 Anxietude and doubt and troubled talk. 
 
 Then writing shows the scene for Heaven-Day. 
 How tell you all in such a breathless time ? 
 
 When Death is standing with his door ajar, 
 Counting the minutes in a dreadful rhyme, 
 
 Till he may take his whetted scythe, and mar 
 The glorious garden where my pleasures grew 
 To music and new hope because of you. 
 
 It is a fearful fall to truest knights — 
 
 This headlong tumble to a mystic goal, 
 This slipping from God's sky and all its lights, 
 
 To dirt and darkness in a narrow hole ; 
 But unto me an angel came to show 
 
 That we imagine all the bitter part — 
 One crack of, thunder and one seething glow 
 
 Of lightning, and a little timid start. 
 And there an end ; the storm becomes a charm, 
 With promise of new life without alarm. 
 
 I do remember in Love's land of France, 
 
 Whither best thoughts do truant-like run back, 
 
CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. 189 
 
 Our life was zoned with light and fair romance, 
 And dance and glamour followed in the track : 
 
 Nay, these are not poor flow'rs I pluck so late ; 
 They have the scent of early love, and tho' 
 
 Some poison buds come too, they are of Fate, 
 And honey were not sweet if 'twere not so.; 
 
 All is for love, and deadly nightshade grows 
 
 As much by Heaven's will as does the rose. 
 
 When that the gentle Hero held the light, 
 
 Leander, knowing then her truth to him. 
 Sank under sea in his extreme delight, 
 
 And in Life's river could no longer swim : 
 Now that you hold this loving light to me, 
 
 Death's river, where the clouds hang in the night, 
 Shall be as glorious as Leander's sea, 
 
 And the mysterious ferry shall be bright ; 
 Your tears are bitter-sweet, e'en I could weep 
 For joy of this " Good night, and pleasant sleep." 
 
 Stay your tears, my sweet, and no more speech 
 Shall come from me of Death ; if my heart's 
 kiss 
 
 Can cure your aphony, I do beseech 
 Your lips a little, that I may not miss 
 
igo CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. 
 
 The melody locked up with your dear voice. 
 
 This pure and precious time can no pain give, 
 But only gentle faith, and I rejoice 
 
 In knowledge of love strong enough to live : 
 Your hand is heaven, my love ; I feel your kiss ; 
 Your eyes speak peace, and now the rest is bliss. 
 
THE FREE SWORD. 
 
 When Peace sends fighters to the field, 
 
 To guard the treasures of her land, 
 They do not go as slaves who yield 
 
 Unto a despot king's command ; 
 Each man obeying her is free. 
 
 And fights that freedom may abide ; 
 When duty calls him over sea, 
 
 He takes a free sword by his side. 
 
 Fair Peace, who blesses art and trade. 
 
 And crowns her working, worthy sons, 
 Must guard the Temple she has made, 
 
 With fire and sword and " shotted guns ; 
 Yea, Peace must her just works defend. 
 
 And sometimes further make her way. 
 With any force that need may send. 
 
 Till all men her commands obey. 
 
 What if the despots gain her ground ? 
 Shall she bear olive in her hands ? 
 
192 THE FREE SWORD. 
 
 With slaughtered votaries around, 
 And burning grain and bloody lands ? 
 
 No, Peace shall take her great free blade, 
 'Gainst which their strength shall be as straw, 
 
 And strike, till all men are afraid 
 To bar her progress and her law. 
 
WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 
 
 The morning sun is shining on dry leaves 
 
 That line the winter woods with faded fires ; 
 And the chill wind that for the summer grieves. 
 
 Plays sad despairing tunes on frosted lyres. 
 Lord Langton he has won his love, and knows 
 
 The joy that is reward for years of pain ; 
 And he is waiting till the darkness grows, 
 
 And wishing it may come with wind and rain. 
 That they may steal away, and in black night 
 Find safety that will lead them to the light. 
 
 And still he walks in that dead forest hall. 
 
 Where the nipped leaves have fallen from the 
 roof 
 To lie about the cup-moss on the wall ; 
 
 And there he tries to keep all fear aloof : 
 " Sir Stephen will be with her for a while, 
 
 And she will give him his full share of sorrow : 
 Then in few minutes will my fortune smile, 
 
 And we shall be away upon the morrow ; 
 
 o 
 
194 WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 
 
 I take a charm to make my burdens light — 
 A lady for whom all brave lords would fight." 
 
 The trees are still between two misty moons — 
 
 One up in heaven and one in the stream, 
 And hung on dark dead boughs are snow festoons, 
 
 And fairy chains with tiny stars agleam, 
 Lord Langton listens with his greedy ears ; 
 
 He starts at night birds and the baying hounds. 
 And his sweet ague of fair hopes and fears 
 
 Suggests strange meanings to mysterious sounds. 
 'Tis time ! he moves along the silent floor, 
 And — there is running blood beneath her door ! 
 
LOVE'S HARVEST. 
 
 Long had I wandered in Circean lands, 
 
 Where dreams of love are only dreams that pass, 
 And known the cruel kindness of white hands, 
 
 And lips like lilies set in adder's grass : 
 True love came not, Marie ; I turned aside, 
 
 And strayed, and felt a cursed one as I stood , 
 Till you were with me as a gracious guide. 
 
 And then I knew the world — that it is good. 
 
 Love's garden had erewhile begun to parch 
 
 In thunder-heat, and no sweet rain to sing : 
 And I was fainting in my weary march — 
 
 The day to me was but a deadly thing. 
 And night a terror : and the sun-heat grew ; 
 
 It choked green things with dust, and cracked 
 the land ; 
 And no rain fell on earth and no wind blew ; 
 
 Then, sinking, I was saved by your dear hand. 
 
 O 2 
 
196 LOVE'S HARVEST. 
 
 And then the coolness came, and drought was 
 done, 
 
 And blessed showers of rain fell through the 
 night, 
 With quiet hopeful music, till the sun 
 
 Showed all my blossoms shining red and white : 
 You were my rainbow-love, the promise given. 
 
 On that blue silent morning after rain, 
 That my new heart should not be sorely riven, 
 
 Nor my new garden bent with blight again. 
 
THE BETTER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 At length the long nights with their chilling rain 
 Have murmured in the Christmas-tide again, 
 And once more men are list'ning to the voice 
 That made the good men of old time rejoice — 
 That still will sanctify our lives, and cheer 
 The sick and said who suffer through the year. 
 
 Ah ! much the name of Christ is at this time ; 
 More than the preacher's word — the poet's rhyme, 
 For these may not interpret what is known 
 Unto the spirit when the rose full blown 
 Makes our eyes dim with joy in early June — 
 It is beyond all sermon, song, or tune. 
 
 So is the thought of Christ beyond our speech — 
 Beyond the subtlety that song can reach ; 
 The little learned men too wise to know 
 May fret us, but the name of Christ shall grow ; 
 And His old teaching wond'ring men shall heed ; 
 There is no other light — it is their need. 
 
198 THE BETTER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 And though we pray the less, may yet some deeds 
 Be better prayers for us than counting beads ; 
 About our hills, throughout our crowded land, 
 Great homes for poor and helpless people stand — 
 For orphans, for the sick, the halt, and old ; 
 Built in the unbelieving age of gold. 
 
 Because good work is done from east ±o west 
 We have the Better Christmas — not the best : 
 Still it shall grow to greater goodness yet ; 
 The words of Christ true men shall not forget ; 
 But knowing them the juster they shall be, 
 Whether to Him or not they bend the knee. 
 
 The right because of Him is still made strong, 
 And His name weakens yet the work of wrong ; 
 But wrong is with us still : we laugh aloud, 
 We feast and mingle with th' unthinking crowd ; 
 And there are men this moment lying dead 
 For want of human love, and help, and bread. 
 
 Is this not so ? The children of the poor 
 Can smell your feast as they pass by the door ; 
 They are not seen — they are so small, they pass 
 Below the level of the window glass ; 
 They are not heard — they walk the frozen street 
 In silence, for they tread with shoeless feet. 
 
THE BETTER CHRISTMAS, 199 
 
 You do not see nor hear, but you must know 
 That by your window now and then they go ; 
 Your pet dog has good meat upon his mat, 
 And warm and well fed is your sleeping cat ; 
 But poor bairns have not food, nor warmth, nor 
 
 light : 
 You dare not think where they will sleep this 
 
 night. 
 
 Why do we not remember ? Let us share 
 A little, and enjoy our Christmas fare : 
 And now to all, who think or who forget, 
 May some new worth or happiness come yet ; 
 And may best thoughts, crowning the festal cheer. 
 Shape better lives to make the better year. 
 
ZEPHADEE. 
 
 The baron sat among his guests — 
 
 They drunk the ruby wine, 
 And ember light showed faces bright 
 
 And made the goblets shine. 
 
 Witch-cries rode rampant on the wind, 
 Down came the drenching rain ; 
 
 The guests drank on, and every one 
 Filled full his cup again. 
 
 The baron had his daughter there — 
 
 She sat at his right hand, 
 And bosoms swelled when eyes beheld 
 
 The love of all the land. 
 
 Her face was as a lady-smock, 
 Red fainting in the white ; 
 
 Ay, she was fair and debonnair — 
 Thrice worthy any knight. 
 
ZEPHADEE. 20I 
 
 No lips had ever won her heart, 
 
 Though lips had often said, 
 " Sweet Angeline, wilt thou be mine ? " 
 
 And she had turned her head. 
 
 Now while loud laughter drowned the jest, 
 And brown beer drowned despight, 
 
 A minstrel came in Jesus' name 
 For shelter from the night. 
 
 " What is thy name ? " the baron said ; 
 
 " A minstrel seemest thou ; 
 An thou dost bring a song to sing. 
 
 Thou shalt be served, I trow." 
 
 " Good master of the festal throng, 
 
 I come from Paynim strand. 
 And I will sing of our brave king 
 
 Who fights in Holyland." 
 
 " What is thy name ? " the baron cried, 
 
 " I come from far-off strand," 
 " Now, fire and flame, what is thy name ? " 
 
 " I come from Fairyland." 
 
 Fierce anger lit the baron's brow ; 
 He shouted sword in hand, 
 
ZEPHADEE. 
 
 With, scoffing breath, " Take him to death I 
 He comes from Fairyland." 
 
 The minstrel moved nor eye nor limb, 
 
 But said as he did stand, 
 " Drop down thy sword upon the board ; 
 
 I come from Fairyland." 
 
 " Take him to death ! " the baron cried. 
 
 The minstrel one word spake : 
 Down dropped the sword upon the board,. 
 
 And all but one did quake. 
 
 Then joy was in the minstrel's eye ; 
 
 " Come hither, Angeline ; 
 My name to thee is Zephadee ; 
 
 I would that thou wert mine. 
 
 " For I have searched through Fairyland 
 
 For one as fair as thee. 
 And none but thou, and this I vow, 
 
 Hath charmed Zephadee." 
 
 She looked into his face and saw 
 
 The lover of her dreams : 
 " Yea, I am thine, thy Angeline, 
 
 Thou lover of my dreams. 
 
ZEPHADEE. 203 
 
 " I knew that thou wouldst come for me 
 
 In sweet love-land to roam, 
 Where fairies play by night and day 
 
 About thy palace home." 
 
 The guests were bounden by a spell ; 
 
 They could not laugh nor frown ; 
 If one held up a brimming cup 
 
 He could not lay it down. 
 
 The minstrel turned him to the guests. 
 
 And took away the charm : 
 " I came not here to bring ye fear, 
 
 Or work ye any harm. 
 
 " I came to seek a maiden's smile. 
 
 And find my wonder joy — 
 Fair Angeline for aye is mine, 
 
 And our love may not cloy. 
 
 " Now let the wine go round again. 
 
 And to this festal band 
 I straight will tell what thing befell 
 
 That won me Fairyland. 
 
 " I journeyed long from Palestine, 
 And came to Britain's shore ; 
 
204 ZEPHADEE. 
 
 (Sit, love, by me, thy Zephadee, 
 And I will tell thee more.) 
 
 " I sang of deeds in Holyland — 
 
 I sang of Richard's fame, 
 And by the sea there came to me 
 
 A grey man, old and lame. 
 
 " That old grey-bearded man came close, 
 
 And took me by the hand : 
 ' Wilt sing again to me that strain. 
 
 And win thee Fairyland ?' 
 
 " I laughed because his words seemed 
 strange. 
 
 And laughing loosed his hand : 
 I sang again to him that strain, 
 
 And won me Fairyland. 
 
 " Give me thy child, and I will give 
 Whate'er thou mayst demand ; 
 
 At dawn of day we'll sail away 
 Unto the Summer land. 
 
 " There all that is, is surely best ; 
 
 There love is love indeed ; 
 And care is not in that fair spot, 
 
 And sorrows do not bleed. 
 
ZEPHADEE. 205 
 
 " All that are in the isle of bliss, 
 
 Delight in every day. 
 Ah ! ye who tread in daily dread 
 
 Know not how blest are they," 
 
 The baron his young daughter gave 
 
 Unto that stranger guest, 
 " And now," said he, " give thou to me 
 
 The thing that is the best." 
 
 " When shines the full moon on the earth, 
 
 Shall be what is the best : 
 Sweet Angeline, now thou art mine, 
 
 And joy is with my quest." 
 
 Proud Zephadee and Angeline 
 Watched for the lagging day ; 
 
 The morning came with sun aflame, 
 And gold was on the hay. 
 
 A rosy bark with silken sails 
 
 Danced lightly in the wind ; 
 The lovers two went o'er the blue. 
 
 And left the land behind. 
 
 Upon the castle's battlements, 
 The baron's guests did stand, 
 
2o6 ZEPHADEE. 
 
 And watched them glide upon the tide 
 Away to Fairyland. 
 
 Away ! away ! in the golden morn ! 
 
 Towards the west away ! 
 The bark swept on and they were gone 
 
 For ever and for aye ! 
 
 The baron waited for the moon, 
 The full moon in the sky ; 
 
 The sun set thrice, and then his eyes 
 Beheld the moon on high. 
 
 He looked thereon with anxious face, 
 Now ! now he would be blest ! 
 
 He fell away from dark and day, 
 For death it is the best. 
 
WILDERMERE. 
 
 Sir Ivan sat beside his love, 
 
 Under a beechen tree ; 
 The wood was all aglow with bloom, 
 
 And all aglow was he, 
 For that young maid to him had said 
 
 That she his wife would be. 
 
 There came a bearded woman by — 
 
 A woman foul to see ; 
 The dog she had was gaunt and grim, 
 
 And gaunt and grim was she ; 
 She shook her staff and laughed the laugh 
 
 Of fiendish villainy. 
 
 " I'know thee," said that grisly dame, 
 " And I will spoil your cheer ; 
 
 I came unto your door for food 
 In winter-time last year ; 
 
 You drove me thence, sans food or pence. 
 Sir Ivan Wildermere." 
 
208 WILDERMERE. 
 
 " I knew thee for a witch," he said, 
 
 " Thou didst not come to me 
 As women come who starve for food. 
 
 And cold and hungry be — 
 Thou didst not shrink for meat or drink. 
 
 Thou hateful prodigy." 
 
 The beldame stared with ghostly eye, 
 
 And came to where they sat ; 
 The dog growled and his mistress growled. 
 
 And at the lovers spat : 
 " Sir Wildermere, see what is here, 
 
 Thy trothplight is a cat." 
 
 Sir Wildermere looked with a blench 
 
 On her he should affy, 
 And lo ! she was a four-legged thing. 
 
 And set her back up high : 
 She wagged a long tail, and the hag 
 
 Laughed at him devilishly. 
 
 Then spake she unto Wildermere, 
 • " This dog I have with me 
 Was once a knight, and thou mayhap 
 
 Some day a dog wilt be : 
 Come cat and dog, now we must jog. 
 
 Good morrow bellamy." 
 
WILDERMERE. 209 
 
 Sir Ivan sank down alamort, 
 
 A sad astonied knight, 
 For his beloved Marian 
 
 He had no power to fight ; 
 As good essay to dim the day, 
 
 Or make the darkness bright. 
 
 Night Ht her lamps, and pale despair 
 
 Laid Ivan in a swoon ; 
 He dreamt of love that was alate 
 
 Under the white-faced moon — 
 The roses wept, and Ivan slept 
 
 The sleep that is a boon. 
 
 The sun shone slanting in the morn 
 Through matted folds of may, 
 
 The eglantine dropped spangle-beads 
 Before him as he lay ; 
 
 And on the knight played amber light, 
 He woke, and it was day ! 
 
 He looked around him with a smile, 
 
 And left his leafy lair, 
 " Now is my heart as full of joy 
 
 As it was full of care, 
 For now I know which way to go, 
 
 Aad fate again is fair. 
 
WILDERMERE. 
 
 " Though devils bring the spite of hell 
 
 To blight a mortal's weal, 
 For every sore there is a salve 
 
 So long as hearts are leal, 
 And sleep hath sent medicament 
 
 My poison-wound to heal." 
 
 He went away by stream and lake 
 
 That lay as smooth as glass. 
 By blossom bough and tangle-wood 
 
 That sighed as he did pass ; 
 And in between was gold and green 
 
 Of buttercups and grass. 
 
 Still on he went until he came 
 
 Unto a dreary dell 
 That made a stench, and all around 
 
 Was dim and dank as hell .; 
 And in that spot there stood a cot, 
 
 And there the witch did swell. 
 
 He strode up to that danger cot. 
 
 Of scorn and anger full. 
 And saw about the house leg-bones 
 
 And on each bone a skull, 
 And white and lone 'mong bleaching bone 
 
 Blew roses beautiful. 
 
WILDERMERE. 
 
 The wily witch grinned at the dooiv 
 
 And picked a human bone ; 
 " I come to kill thine evil craft, 
 
 And make thee to atone ; 
 I fear no harm, I bear a charm 
 
 More potent than thine own." 
 
 And therewithal his shining blade. 
 From out the sheath he drew ; 
 
 The witch stood up, and in a trice 
 Her iron nose she blew 
 
 In trumpet sound, and from the ground 
 Two giant things upgrew. 
 
 " I do not fear ye," said the knight, 
 " Nor Doubt, nor yet Despair ; " 
 
 A bogglish light was in their eyes 
 That looked in devil stare — 
 
 He fought the two and both he slew, 
 The dame died with a blare. 
 
 He took his love from under ban, 
 
 After the deadly fight ; 
 Then tapped he upon every skull. 
 
 And each became a knight ; 
 And by his side each hath his bride 
 
 From scented roses white. 
 
 p 2 
 
WILDERMERE. 
 
 And joy was unto every knight, 
 For dead were Doubt and Fear ; 
 
 And joy was unto ev'ry maid 
 For many a merry year — 
 
 And more than all the joy did fall 
 To Ivan Wildermere. 
 
EDGAR. 
 
 After long errant strife abroad, 
 Lord Danion homeward came, 
 
 To eat and drink awhile in peace, 
 And win love by his fame. 
 
 As he rode inland with his squire, 
 Smiles on his dark face played, 
 
 For in the land of home and love 
 All sounds sweet music made. 
 
 At farmsteads Saxon men w.ould scowl, 
 As passed the Norman Knight ; 
 
 But he would laugh fair greeting back. 
 For his young heart was light ; 
 
 , And he cared not what men might be, 
 
 Or whether they looked grim. 
 So long as he had share of wealth, 
 And harm came not to him. 
 
214 EDGAR. 
 
 Two years ere this he sought to win 
 
 Elfa, a Saxon maid, 
 Whose father, Egbert, yet had wealth 
 
 After each Norman raid. 
 
 Lord Danion had for rival then 
 
 Edgar, a Saxon youth ; 
 But Danion wooed with more of craft, 
 
 Though not with more of truth. 
 
 He won the father, but the maid 
 Looked on his love as guile ; 
 
 And all his kindness and his vows 
 Could not make Elfa smile. 
 
 Edgar could only say he loved, 
 
 Still Elfa soon he won ; 
 But Egbert gave to him no hope 
 
 That he might be his son. 
 
 At length the father counselled them 
 That each should go his way. 
 
 And join some lord in fray and feud. 
 For two years and a day. 
 
 The one who won the most of fame, 
 Should win the most of love ; 
 
 And he would take him for his son, 
 Upon his word and glove. 
 
EDGAR. 215 
 
 And now from sea, by chilly moor, 
 
 By wood and battlement. 
 Lord Danion with an old squire rode. 
 
 And his thoughts loveward went. 
 
 " Peter, dost thou not think it well," 
 He said, with slack'ning rein, 
 
 " To be with EngHsh birds and trees. 
 In the old land again ? 
 
 " Some idling days, with simple sport, 
 
 Will not befall amiss, 
 After rough times of bloody work, 
 
 Nor will a maiden's kiss." 
 
 " Ay, it is well to leave the fight, 
 
 With its grim daily threat, 
 And think that Death, a long way off, 
 
 Will seek not for us yet ; 
 
 " Till long, long summers we have had 
 
 With feasts in gay attire ; 
 Till long, long winters we have sat 
 
 With loved ones by the fire. 
 
 " That he will leave us to this life. 
 Till we with age are white, 
 
 Then kindly come as our best friend, 
 To guide us through the night." 
 
2i6 EDGAR. 
 
 " But surely, Peter, thou dost not 
 
 Look forward to thy prime, 
 But rather backward, for thine age 
 
 Is in its autumn-time ?" 
 
 " And may not my gold autumn be 
 As long as thy green spring? 
 
 And my fruit satisfy as much 
 As when thy love-birds sing ? 
 
 " How blessed are the peaceful men 
 Who fear nor age nor death, 
 
 Who gently live, and in the end 
 With smiles can yield their breath ! 
 
 " And how deceived are men who seek 
 For quarrels stained with blood ! 
 
 And call their broil their honour's fight. 
 That some may think it good. 
 
 " Who for no cause, but their own pride, 
 
 Will put in flames a town, 
 And make the children fatherless 
 
 For glorious renown ! 
 
 " Their deeds of blood shall stain their souls, 
 
 Till they bend under years. 
 And people all their guilty ways 
 
 With fiends and crowds of fears." 
 
EDGAR. 217 
 
 " Now art thou not a strange old squire 
 
 To follow a young knight, 
 Whose love and honour must be won 
 
 In camp, and^eld, and fight ? 
 
 " Thou speakest plainly to thy lord. 
 
 Now will I speak to thee : 
 In this day's journey 'twixt us two, 
 
 There need no quarrel be ; 
 
 " And when we come to Egbert's Hall 
 
 At Withold, thou mayst go ; 
 I know but little of thee now. 
 
 And little wish to know. 
 
 " Our battles bring strange men to fight. 
 And some strange men to serve ; 
 
 And I have given place to thee 
 That thou didst not deserve." 
 
 Then Peter, " Shall I not have rest ? 
 
 Do not my old limbs tire ? 
 What shall I do when thou dost take 
 
 Thy full cup by the fire ? " 
 
 " If thou dost wish for shelter there 
 
 It shall be giv'n to thee ; 
 And if thou keep a quiet tongue, 
 
 Thou shalt have fare with me. 
 
2i8 EDGAR. 
 
 " It will be better so for thee, 
 
 And better so for me ; 
 For as my quest is one of love, 
 
 I wish for harmony ; 
 
 " In turn, be civil for the night ; 
 
 Chime in with no rude chord ; 
 And in the morning thou mayst seek 
 
 New venture and new lord." 
 
 So rode they, and few words were said ; 
 
 And nought strange did befall : 
 At eve the young lord blew his horn 
 
 Before old Withold Hall. 
 
 The gate was passed, and Egbert's folk 
 
 Made merry for their guest ; 
 For tidings did not often come 
 
 To them from east or west. 
 
 And now there would be much ado ; 
 
 Great feasting in the hall ; 
 Tales from the wars ; with perhaps at end, 
 
 A marriage festival : 
 
 Then would they have good cheer enough 
 
 For any king or queen ; 
 And don new caps, with ribbons fine, 
 
 For games upon the green. 
 
EDGAR. 219 
 
 After the feast Lord Danion talked, 
 
 With folk agape to hear, 
 Of deeds that he had done in fight, 
 
 With trusty sword and spear. 
 
 Fair Elfa was in wonderment, 
 
 And yet she heard in gloom ; 
 And sat so still she seemed to be 
 
 Like to a ilow'r in bloom. 
 
 Her gentle face gave dreams of hope, 
 
 As does the blessed morn 
 In the blue summer ; and her hair 
 
 Was as the sunlit corn. 
 
 Then Danion, in a vengeful mood, 
 Told with loud scoifing breath. 
 
 How Edgar in the battle fell. 
 And died a coward's death : 
 
 How he grew pale with recreant fear, 
 
 And turned away from fight. 
 And was o'ertaken by a boy, 
 
 And slain in his base flight. 
 
 Then Elfa bent her fair young head, 
 And her clasped hands became 
 
 Wet with her tears ; and Egbert's heart 
 Stood still for Saxon shame : 
 
EDGAR. 
 
 With hatred for the Norman host 
 
 His blood within ran wild ; 
 But he must show them courtesy 
 
 For home and for his child. 
 
 Old Peter on the darken'd ground 
 
 Was lying all alone ; 
 He was not minded by the guests, 
 
 Nor seen by anyone. 
 
 In this sad pause he spoke, " The lord 
 
 In battles great hath been ; 
 And now, good host, I pray you hear 
 
 What this old man hath seen. 
 
 " I am a Saxon ; there are few 
 Who know, and fewer care ; 
 
 And I have nothing left to lose. 
 So I can speak out fair. 
 
 " 'Tis true the Saxon Edgar fell. 
 
 But it was not in flight : 
 Nor was it in the light of day, 
 
 But in the dark still night. 
 
 " Three murd'rers took him in his sleep, 
 
 And I have heard men say 
 The Norman hound who set them on 
 
 Shall yet be brought to bay." 
 
EDGAR. 22 
 
 (When Danionheard these wordshelaughed, 
 
 But in his soul was fear ; 
 His face was blanched, but turned from light 
 
 It did not so appear.) 
 
 " Edgar fought well, but won no fame, 
 
 'Tis not now Saxon food." 
 (Egbert, remembering his wrongs, 
 
 Showed in his face his blood.) 
 
 " While Saxon sires can hardly keep 
 
 Together land and name, 
 Why should they think that N orman tongues 
 
 Will to their sons give fame ? 
 
 " Believe me, lady, I have seen 
 
 Thy love fight this same lord, 
 And he has so belaboured him 
 
 That he could speak no word." 
 
 " Who is it says so to my face ? " 
 
 Cried Danion in his scorn ; 
 " Why thou hast been my serving-man. 
 
 Thou slave of those mean bom ! " 
 
 " What then ? Did I not serve thee well ? 
 
 As well as age may youth ?. 
 And dost thou think when men grow old 
 
 They dare not speak the truth ? 
 
EDGAR. 
 
 " I only say the thing I know, 
 And saw with mine own eyes ; 
 
 Therefore the truth is not with thee, 
 And thy strange tales are lies." 
 
 Then Danion sprang unto his feet 
 
 To answer with a blow, 
 But Egbert grasped him by the arm, 
 
 And would not let him go. 
 
 As Elfa shrank away for fear, 
 The old man laughed and said, 
 
 " I pray thee do not let him harm 
 This serving-man's white head." 
 
 And Danion then, " Thou mocking slave, 
 
 Yet will I hold my rage ; 
 Thy sense is leaving thee, and thou 
 
 Art foolish in thine age." 
 
 " No more, no more — let quarrel end," 
 
 Said the good Egbert then ; 
 " No more of Norman or Saxon ; 
 
 Come drink as mortal men." 
 
 But Danion, growling yet awhile, 
 The board struck with his hand. 
 
 And said, " No man that I have met 
 Can my good sword withstand." 
 
EDGAR. 223 
 
 Old Peter, coming from the dark, 
 
 And standing in the glow, 
 Said, with a sm,ile, " Behold, Sir Liar, 
 
 The man who can do so." 
 
 Then Danion fell back with a cry ! 
 
 Amazed the guests did stare ! 
 For it was no old man came forth, 
 
 But Edgar who stood there ! 
 
 " O rest thee, rest thee, in the grave ! 
 
 O rest thee with the dead ! 
 O mercy, mercy!" Danion cried, 
 
 " Thy blood is on my head !" 
 
 " Indeed I hope that I may rest, 
 Though not yet in my grave, 
 
 But with my love, and thou mayst yet 
 Live well and thy soul save. 
 
 " I am no ghost : I was struck down. 
 
 But I got up again ; 
 And with the three men did contend, 
 
 Till two of them were slain : 
 
 " The third,. I held him by the throat, 
 
 For mercy he did crave ; 
 And he confessed what I have said. 
 
 That he his life might save. 
 
224 EDGAR. 
 
 " I let him live, and made him swear, 
 
 As his soul might be free, 
 That he should tell thee I was dead, 
 
 Then in a task aid me. 
 
 " For well he knew, as thou dost know. 
 
 If false I had him found, 
 I could have grasped him in my arms, 
 
 And thrown him dead to ground. 
 
 " Did he not speak to thee of one, 
 Though old, who had strange power 
 
 Of telling signs, and healing wounds, 
 And sores, by herb and flower ? 
 
 " Did he not say that this old man 
 O'er English ground could guide, 
 
 And serve thee well in camp and field. 
 And many ways beside ? 
 
 " And so disguised I sought and served. 
 With thee from place to place, 
 
 That some day I might tell this tale, 
 In this Hall to thy face." 
 
 Then Edgar unto Elfa turned. 
 And lovers' doubts were done, 
 
 For Egbert to the Saxon came, 
 And blessed him as his son. 
 
EDGAR. 225 
 
 Lord Danion left the Hall that night, 
 
 Alone in rain and wind ; 
 And Edgar, filling full his cup, 
 
 With Elfa stayed behind. 
 
 THE END. 
 
- ^ai