Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

Eversley, 1852. From Hypatia.

SAINT MAURA. A.D. 304

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

Eversley, 1852.

ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL {282}

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eversley, 1852.

DOWN TO THE MOTHERS

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

Eversley, 1852.

TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF 'OUR VILLAGE'

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

Eversley, 1853.

BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER

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

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

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

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

Devonshire, 1854 From Westward Ho!

FRANK LEIGH'S SONG. A.D. 1586

Ah tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing, Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart? Ah ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing, Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart? Is this my meed? Must dragons' teeth alone In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown?

Nay, gentlest Cupid; 'twas my pride undid me; Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell. To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me: I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell; For ever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel.

Devonshire, 1854. From Westward Ho!

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND

Welcome, wild North-easter. Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

1854.

A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you, For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, One grand sweet song.

February 1, 1856.

TO G. A. G.

A hasty jest I once let fall-- As jests are wont to be, untrue-- As if the sum of joy to you Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.

Your eyes met mine: I did not blame; You saw it: but I touched too near Some noble nerve; a silent tear Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.

I do not wish those words unsaid. Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you In that one look to woman grew, While with a child, I thought, I played.

Next to mine own beloved so long! I have not spent my heart in vain. I watched the blade; I see the grain; A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.

THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN'S BLESSINGS

O blessed drums of Aldershot! O blessed South-west train! O blessed, blessed Speaker's clock, All prophesying rain!

O blessed yaffil, laughing loud! O blessed falling glass! O blessed fan of cold gray cloud! O blessed smelling grass!

O bless'd South wind that toots his horn Through every hole and crack! I'm off at eight to-morrow morn, To bring _such_ fishes back!

Eversley, April 1, 1856.

THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES