Chapter 4

"Indeed--indeed--I like you well Aye, better than my brother, But I canna give you my promised word For--I must wait for another."

DRAMAS.

June and November.

On a day, long ago, I was just a child, I walked with my lover, my arm in his arm, Half of me was sad and half with joy was wild, The wind was so soft and the sun was so warm. I walked with my lover to his pretty nonsense listening, And I pressed my beating heart against my lover's side; And tho' my voice was steady my traitor eyes were glistening, I showed to my lover all I wished to hide. His vows were so tender, his speech was so fluent, He whispered his sorrow if ever we must part. My heart in my bosom fluttered and played truant, So I gave it him all ... my innocent heart. On a green bank amidst the purple irises, And the shadow of a pine-wood across it was flung, I gave him soft words, I gave him my kisses, I gave him myself--myself that was so young. On a day, long ago, (pity to remember How the wind was soft, how the sun was warm,)-- Then it was June and now it is November, Then I knew no evil nor thought of any harm.

A Foolish Tragedy.

In the capital of Valladolid There lived a highborn maiden In a white house in a steep street With green doors and shutters, Her lips were like scarlet poppies And her hair like a black waterfall, And behind her ear she wore A flower of red geranium.

And her Spanish lover sighed And in his love he cried, "Heaven were nearer If she were dearer, She is the most wonderful and beautiful thing In the capital of Valladolid.

"If I could persuade her father, That fierce and rich old Councillor, Not to despise my suit But let me speak to his daughter, I would esteem it more Than the rank of a Grandee of Spain, A cargo of spices from Java Or a galleon laden with silver."

Under a brazen crucifix And the outstretched arms of our Saviour (And over her ivory shoulder Her black hair poured like a waterfall) To Mary, Mother of Heaven, Prayed the foolish maiden, "Mary, send me a lover, Young and tender and handsome."

It chanced on a day of festival In the capital of Valladolid That their eyes met at a crossing And their two souls rushed together. By the greed of a bought duenna And the interchange of love-notes And the help of a hempen ladder They arranged a meeting at midnight.

Her father, the rich old Councillor, Looked out of a second-floor window And passed his sword thro' the body Of one who climbed up a ladder. His fingers loosed the rungs And down he crashed to the pavement. And out of his handsome body His startled spirit departed.

And the Spanish maiden cried And moaned until she died, "My lover dead, My honour sped." So ended a foolish tragedy In the capital of Valladolid.

Alone!

I

Alone and built of a pallid stone Across the levels looked her house And tattered plot, where nought had grown But withered trees which creaked their boughs. No fruit or blossom or petal blown Was there to gladden mournful eyes, But all was drab and monotone Beneath a reign of leaden skies. A red, red weed was all the flower, Which crawled serpiginous about The marsh, unchanged from hour to hour Until the evening blotted out The landscape which she called her own.

And, save for a ridge of bent and sand, Which rose between them and the sea, The marshes stretched on either hand, And, ever looking, wearied she Of low sad purple and sombre brown And, where the rivulets trickled down, Moss-tracks of vivid green, And stiff grey grasses which bend and sigh, As the marsh wind wails and passes by, And quagmires in between The firmer ground--and over all She heard the curlews' dreary call As they piped eternally.

II

In the days of grace, in the good days gone, She had set him up on a golden throne, The face of a god and a heart of stone, But now she must live alone, Alone, alone, alone In a little grey house of stone Which stares o'er the marshes towards the sea Where the great grey waves roll sullenly Night and day for ever and aye With mournful voices which seem to say "Alone, alone, alone."

III

She laid her down on a sandy ledge, Alone, And buried her face amid the sedge And mourned till eve for a broken pledge, Alone, And the great grey sea began to moan Gathering noise from depths unknown And boomed with a hollow undertone "Alone, alone, alone."

IV

Up came the night with funeral wing The ominous depths o'ershadowing, But she lay a dumb insentient thing-- Alone with a heart of stone, With neither tears nor hopes nor fears And the booming swell like a monstrous knell Tolled strongly in her ears.

V

Alone, alone, alone, She who had loved and known On other nights like this Strong arms about her and many a kiss And words of gentle tone.

Alone, alone, alone, A woman she had known Like a figure carved from stone Held a letter in her hand She scarce could understand Of words which hardly could be read "Goodbye--There is nothing to be said."

* * * * *

Ah! God, if she had known.

Alone, alone, alone, She who had longed for love by stealth As a gold-mad miser longs for wealth Or a poet longs for fame, Her seared numb body had just an ache For a pitiful pitiless last mistake And the smirch upon her name.

VI

A shrill chill wind blew out of the West As a young child wails for a Mother's breast, It broke the swell and whitened each crest And moaned "I come with a strange behest; The dead are happier. They are at rest Alone, alone, alone, Each under a graven stone, Where the poppies are red In the homes of the dead And their scarlet petals spill And the seabirds scream As they wheel and gleam And the seawinds whistle shrill. The dead are happy, for they are free They have said farewell to misery, Alone Each under a stone; But the hearts which mourn for a faithless friend Can never, never, never mend, And so they break for friendship's sake Alone, alone, alone."

VII

The sea wind blew like a wild lament For loved ones dying or love mis-spent And still in her hollow of sand and bent She lay alone, alone, And stared out into the keening blast Not heeding the future or mourning the past, For past and future were one.

VIII

Ah! pity her, who needed it most-- But in the village along the coast Are those who tremble and moan, Seeming to wait alone For a dreadful something unknown, As the tempest travels gathering force And sobs and howls and raves and roars And laughs like a demon band, And the great waves clamber into the bay With voices triumphant which seem to say "Hurrah! Hurrah! we have found a prey But we seek another on land."

Ah! shivering fisherwife in your shawl, Perhaps they have found a prey Who leap and shout in the bay, And you will weep for the grief of it all For many and many a day.

IX

All night the moon peered wan and pale Thro' rifts in a scudding storm-rent veil O'er a moving mountainous waste. All night did the climbers rear and roar And fall with a crash upon the shore, League on league of them coming in haste Till they broke and leapt no more, Leaping and shouting until they broke Upon the screaming shore. And the simple hardy fisherfolk Kept watch and slept no more, As the wicked wind raved down the street With gouts of foam and slings of sleet And battered at every door.

All night the tiles like chips of straw Were borne, and the air was filled with the roar Of the monstrous symphony. But its music lulled as the morning came And touched the East with a rosy flame, And whitened a hard clear sky, And the tide drew out far far to the sea Which shouted less tumultuously, Tho' its voices were heard for a sign, As it beat upon the barrier rocks With the baffled rage of the Equinox In a spouting misty line.

X

After a night so fierce and foul What wonder such a day? The wind, which shrieked like a tortured soul Last night across the bay, Blew high and keen like a violin And dashed the blue with spray.

After a night so mad and wild An afternoon of blue, Of glinting, winking, glad blue waters And breakers only a few, Of light and azure undefiled With scarce a cloud in view.

And at the hour of evening prayer Came three who roamed the shore, The sea was older, colder, and greyer, And moved and murmured more.

Amid the waste of heaven and sea A body lay alone, Half in a pool and half on the knee Of an ancient mossy stone.

The sea had saved a poor little fool From life and all its harms, Her body lay in a lonely pool-- Not in a lover's arms.

And on her cheek the mask of peace And on her lips the smile Of those who mourn and find release, Who know, not love, the vile.

The Wraith.

A pale wraith stood in the dim grey dawn Beside his old love's bed Wavering like a film of lawn And wrang his hands and said, "Oh! I have come to make my prayer For I cannot take my rest When I think of the red crown I called your hair And the cold stone in your breast.

"Out of the eyeless hopeless dark The nights that are black and grey Never a moon or faint star-spark Or a lonely glimmer of day. Oh! my love, I have come, love, From the ebony gates of death For the sake of the red crown I called your hair And the jasmine of your breath."

But his voice was lost like a mouse's scream In a lonely empty house, And the woman lay in a tender dream Of love and orchard boughs, Her cheeks were flushed and twice she sighed As she turned upon her bed And she had no thought for the thing that cried Or the utterance of the dead.

The Two Murderers.

"Yes, it was I that killed her I did it with this knife, Her that was more to me once.... Well, just the whole of my life. Take me away and hide me, Or kill me afore I'm mad.... It's rummy to think of me hanging Who was such a quiet lad.

"I met her here on the tow-path, Same as I used in May, There wasn't no moon yet, only The scent of the new-mown hay, And I says--well--I thought for a moment The happy times was near, 'The light that shineth in darkness Is the light of your eyes, my dear.'

"Murder! a court full of lawyers.... And justice guaranteed.... And the judge will hang the prisoner 'For a cowardly cruel deed.'... Murder!--excuse my laughing!... It's a kind of catch in the breath.... 'But there's words more harsh than a rope is And looks more bitter than death.'

"Murder! My Lud, if ever Their ledgers are balanced true Which of the pair?... Oh! I reckon That she killed something too. ... Is it the scent of a woman's hair Or the scent of new-mown hay?... Don't stand there shaking and staring, For God's sake take me away."

REFLECTIONS.

The Wind and the Hills.

We will carry our ills To a height of the hills, Lying down, lying still In the lap of a hill.

The wind blowing keen Shall again make us clean, Both body and spirit; As it passes we shall hear it.

The time is of thunder And fields new turned under, Of budding and waking; Of thorn-blossom flaking.

Of longing and questing; Of carol and nesting; Of white birds on the wing Over seas blue with spring.

But you read in the pages Of the books of the sages, And save that dark curtain They know nothing certain,

Except that dark portal Which waits all things mortal-- And conqueror or prophet Comprehend no more of it.

Yet the wind travels so That it surely must know; It has gone the world round Till it came to our ground.

And the hills, which stood fast Ere the first axe was cast And have seen so much history, May have fathomed the mystery.

But the hills on our borders Are silent old warders, And the winds which rejoice No articulate voice.

Oh! ye pure larger airs Ye will scatter our cares-- Mighty bastions of ours, Uplift that which cowers,

For behind your grave brows Are a thousand strong "Nows--" And the wind has a "must" In its rude healthy gust.

How it braces and rightens That wind to make Titans! Its strenuous wooing Says, "Up, lads, and doing."

So leaving the high down Like giants we stride down; While the valleys before us Resound to our chorus.

Having been each a seer To whom all things were near, Not resenting or grieving But simply believing.

The Happy Ones.

They awaited with head erect Whatever fate could befall them; Tried but the good to recollect, Cried for the truth to call them. To be loved by the children of other suns And send a message to find them, This is the fate of the happiest ones Tho' the mortar of life may grind them. They were like swimmers breasting the waves In the troughs of a stormy channel, They are silent now in their lonely graves, But the world has become the panel. They wore the truth like a bridal dress And sorrow like wedding apparel, Tho' the placid laughed at their foolishness And the cynic sneered from his barrel. Or like the wandering Ishmaelites, Who found no city to dwell in, Whose lonely hearts ached for pleasant sights, Whose graves were the places they fell in, Rock their pillow and sand their bed, As the sun of the desert paints them; The fierce kites screaming overhead, And the hands of all men against them. But a word goes out and over the earth, From the silent burying-places, Like a gentle rain in a land of dearth, And lights up the tired faces. It brings a roof and a sweet abode To many a soul that is vagrant; Their names are blossoms along the road And their lives are for ever fragrant. We who sorrow are brothers of theirs, Because of their beautiful sorrows, Wheat will grow up among the tares, And young corn grow in the furrows.

A Question.

Why do you prate to me Of deeds unjust and just, Moved by a story of good Or a monstrous tale of crimes-- Me that can have no loves But star-eyed queens long dust, Me that can mourn no griefs But the tears in poets' rhymes?

The Earth.

The Earth and her travail are ancient, Her gods have but reigned for a while-- The moon-crowned Queen Astarte, The barking god of the Nile. Her temples were raised and builded, And crumbled again to the dust-- Her worships have been and vanished-- But the heart of the Earth is just.

Aspirations.

For that Thou pointest further still Than that dumb hand upon the hour Nor givest the boon to sap the will, I thank Thee, wise and tender power.

For that Thou givest my soul some pride, Not grudging sorrow for a mate, For this my wild and lovely bride I thank Thee, just, compassionate.

For that Thou givest my soul some strength Of that high strength which rules the stars, To brave the time and wait the length, I bless Thy name and kiss my scars.

Romance.

Know the decree that natures such as mine Must clasp the World and find her half-divine, Hyperion-souls which need no anodyne. Once more, once more ye come, ye lovely shapes, Voicing the magic "Ye are Gods, not Apes." And oh! the Glory over seas and capes. In memory only!--What that memory gave Of our young day, so brief and yet so brave, Will lead us half reluctant to the grave. Tho' it existed not--lived never--only came From some vast depth of dateless woe and shame Striving to give its high desire a name, The glory dies not; leaves us tired and still; We cannot follow, even if we will; The Afterglow! Ah! there--beyond the hill.