Chapter 3

Your mammie dear Leans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm; Watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear, Lest he should come to harm.

All to be blest Full soon in the clear heavenly water, he Sleeps on unwitting of it, his little breast Heaving so tenderly.

I carried you, My little Ann, long since on this same quest, And from the painted windows a pale hue Lit golden on your breast;

And then you woke, Chill as the holy water trickled down, And, weeping, cast the window a strange look, Half smile, half infant frown.

I scarce could hear The shrill larks singing in the green meadows, 'Twas summertide, and, budding far and near, The hedges thick with rose.

And now you're grown A little girl, and this same helpless mite Is come like such another bud half-grown, Out of the wintry night.

Time flies, time flies! And yet, bless me! 'tis little changed am I; May Jesu keep from tears those infant eyes, Be love their lullaby!

THE FUNERAL

They dressed us up in black, Susan and Tom and me-- And, walking through the fields All beautiful to see, With branches high in the air And daisy and buttercup, We heard the lark in the clouds-- In black dressed up.

They took us to the graves, Susan and Tom and me, Where the long grasses grow And the funeral tree: We stood and watched; and the wind Came softly out of the sky And blew in Susan's hair, As I stood close by.

Back through the fields we came, Tom and Susan and me, And we sat in the nursery together, And had our tea. And, looking out of the window, I heard the thrushes sing; But Tom fell asleep in his chair, He was so tired, poor thing.

THE MOTHER BIRD

Through the green twilight of a hedge I peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed, And spied a bird upon a nest: Two eyes she had beseeching me Meekly and brave, and her brown breast Throbbed hot and quick above her heart; And then she opened her dagger bill,-- 'Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe At break of day; 'twas not a trill, As falters through the quiet even; But one sharp solitary note, One desperate, fierce, and vivid cry Of valiant tears, and hopeless joy, One passionate note of victory; Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked, Smiling the smile the fool smiles best, At the mother bird in the secret hedge Patient upon her lonely nest.

THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED

I prythee, Nurse, come smooth my hair, And prythee, Nurse, unloose my shoe, And trimly turn my silken sheet Upon my quilt of gentle blue.

My pillow sweet of lavender Smooth with an amiable hand, And may the dark pass peacefully by As in the hour-glass droops the sand.

Prepare my cornered manchet sweet, And in my little crystal cup Pour out the blithe and flowering mead That forthwith I may sup.

Withdraw my curtains from the night, And let the crispèd crescent shine Upon my eyelids while I sleep, And soothe me with her beams benign.

Dark looks the forest far-away; O, listen! through its empty dales Rings from the solemn echoing boughs The music of its nightingales.

Now quench my silver lamp, prythee, And bid the harpers harp that tune Fairies which haunt the meadowlands Sing clearly to the stars of June.

And bid them play, though I in dreams No longer heed their pining strains, For I would not to silence wake When slumber o'er my senses wanes.

You Angels bright who me defend, Enshadow me with curvèd wing, And keep me in the darksome night. Till dawn another day do bring.

THE LAMPLIGHTER

When the light of day declines, And a swift angel through the sky Kindles God's tapers clear, With ashen staff the lamplighter Passes along the darkling streets To light our earthly lamps;

Lest, prowling in the darkness, The thief should haunt with quiet tread, Or men on evil errands set; Or wayfarers be benighted; Or neighbors, bent from house to house, Should need a guiding torch.

He is like a needlewoman Who deftly on a sable hem Stitches in gleaming jewels; Or, haply, he is like a hero, Whose bright deeds on the long journey Are beacons on our way.

And when in the East comes morning, And the broad splendour of the sun, Then, with the tune of little birds Rings on high, the lamplighter Passes by each quiet house, And he puts out the lamps.

I MET AT EVE

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep, His was a still and lovely face, He wandered through a valley steep, Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender, About his brows a poppy-wreath Burned like dim coals, and everywhere The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore, His eyes shone faint in their own flame, Fair moths that gloomed his steps before Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways, A phantom house of misty walls, Whose golden flocks at evening graze, And witch the moon with muffled calls.

Upwelling from his shadowy springs Sweet waters shake a trembling sound, There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings, There hath his web the silkworm wound.

Dark in his pools clear visions lurk, And rosy, as with morning buds, Along his dales of broom and birk Dreams haunt his solitary woods.

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep, His was a still and lovely face, He wandered through a valley steep, Lovely in a lonely place.

LULLABY

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul; The little mouse cheeps plaintively, The night-bird in the chestnut-tree-- They sing together, bird and mouse, In starlight, in darkness, lonely, sweet, The wild notes and the faint notes meet-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul; Amid the lilies floats the moth, The mole along his galleries goeth In the dark earth; the summer moon Looks like a shepherd through the pane Seeking his feeble lamp again-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul; Time comes to keep night-watch with thee, Nodding with roses; and the sea Saith "Peace! Peace!" amid his foam. "O be still!" The wind cries up the whispering hill-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.

ENVOI

Child, do you love the flower Ashine with colour and dew Lighting its transient hour? So I love you.

The lambs in the mead are at play, 'Neath a hurdle the shepherd's asleep; From height to height of the day The sunbeams sweep.

Evening will come. And alone The dreamer the dark will beguile; All the world will be gone For a dream's brief while.

Then I shall be old; and away: And you, with sad joy in your eyes, Will brood over children at play With as loveful surmise.

* * * * *