Part 2

She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours. The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered--to honour and sorrow born. They lay round her, touched her close. The jasmine stars--white stars, that about our window their faint light shed, Lay round her head. And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand.

They lie by her--rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest-- I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude-- Where she never stood-- On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow,-- As if any one cared How they fared! And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword-- Life's pitiless Lord-- And I know I never may pass. Alas! alas! O Rose! my rose! I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of God.

PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES.

O God, let there be rain! Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain,-- Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain. Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main! Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O God, let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain! To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety. Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, And some day send us the sun again. O God, let there be rain!

A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE.

Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too,--or so it seems-- Dust in the place of dreams.

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name. Work is the end and aim of their lives-- Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Work--one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease.

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night? God will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you--every one-- Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work--in hell!

LONDON'S VOICES

SPEAK TO TWO SOULS--WHO THUS REPLY:

I.

In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions--is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?-- That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. I can do nothing--even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again!

II.

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: "Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!" I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, And came to do the little best I could For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would I had a thousand lives to give for these!

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong? Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay? The foe is mighty, and the battle long (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

THE SICK JOURNALIST.

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks--as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet--don't cry, Father can't write if you do-- And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor; We'll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving--your little ones-- While you sit fooling there. Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head-- Here they are--see! Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed!-- I cannot bear their eyes. Their soft little kisses burn-- They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn.

If I could only write Just a dozen pages or so On "The Prospects of Trade," or "The Irish Question," or "Why are Wages so Low?"-- The printers are waiting for copy now, I've had my next week's screw, There'll be nothing more till I've written something, Oh, God! what am I to do? If I could only write! The paper glares up white Like the cursed white of the heavy stone Under which _she_ lies alone; And the ink is black like death, And the room and the window are black. Molly, Molly--the sun's gone out, Cannot you fetch it back? Did I frighten my little ones? Never mind, daddy dropped asleep-- Cuddle down closely, creep Close to his knee And daddy will see If he can't do his writing. Vain! I shall never write again! Oh, God! was it like a love divine To make their lives hang on my pen When I cannot write a line?

TWO LULLABIES.

I.

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, Thee shall no want or pain come near; Sleep softly on thy downy nest, Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.

Thy cradle is all silken lined, Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, With soft white pillows for thy head.

Much gold those little hands shall hold, And wealth about thy life shall fold, And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, Nor the low ills of common life.

These little feet shall never tread Except on paths soft-carpeted, And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine To deck that darling head of thine.

Thou shalt have overflowing measure Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, And thou shalt be right charitable With all the crumbs that leave thy table.

And thou shalt praise God every day For His good gifts that come thy way, And again thank Him, and again, That thou art not as other men.

For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall-- 'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all; And when all's spent that life has given, Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

II.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, Though the wind is cruel and cold, And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in Is old and ragged and thin; And my hand is too frozen to hold-- Yet my bosom's still warm--so creep Close to thy mother, and sleep!

Sleep, little baby, and rest, Though we wander alone through the night, And there is no food for me, No shelter for me and thee. Through the windows red fires shine bright, And tables show, heaped with the best-- But there's naught for us there--so rest.

Sleep, you poor little thing! Just as pretty and dear As any fine lady's child. Oh, but my heart grows wild!-- Is it worth while to stay here? What good thing from life will spring For you--you poor little thing?

Sleep, you poor little thing! Mine, my treasure, my own-- I clasp you, I hold you close, My darling, my bird, my rose! Rich mothers have hearts like stone, Or else some help they would bring To you--you poor little thing!

Sleep, little baby, sleep-- If some good, rich mother would take My dear, I would kiss thee, and then Never come near thee again-- Not though my heart should break! I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake-- For the river is dark and deep, And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

BABY SONG.

I.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The greeny glow-worms creep, The pigeons to their cote are gone And, to their fold, the sheep.

Rest, baby, rest! The sun sinks in the west, The daisies all have gone to sleep, The birds are in the nest.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The sky grows dark and deep, The stars watch over all the world, God's angels guard thy sleep.

II.

Wake, baby dear! The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby, wake! Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby dear! Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear.

LULLABY.

Sleep, my darling; mother will sing Soft low songs to her little king, Nobody else must listen or hear The pretty secrets I tell my dear.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, Soon enough will the day be here.

Lie here quiet on mother's arm, Safe from harm; Nestled closely to mother's breast, Sleep and rest!

Mother feels your breath's soft stir Close to her; Mother holds you, clasps you tight, All the night.

When the little Jesus lay On the manger's hay, He was a Baby, if tales tell true, Just like you.

And He had no crown to wear But His bright hair; And such kisses as I give you He had too.

Mary never loved her Son More than I love my little one; And her Baby never smiled More divinely than my little child.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, All too soon will the day be here.

AN EAST-END TRAGEDY.

You said that you would never wed: "My love, my life's one work lie here, 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, Where all life's flower-petals are shed!" You said.

I heard: I bowed to what I heard; I bowed my head and worshipped you-- So brave, so beautiful, so true-- How could I doubt a single word I heard?

My sweet, white lily! All the street, As you passed by, grew clean again; The fallen, blackened souls of men Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, My sweet.

But one came, dared to woo, and won-- He heard your vows, and laughed at them; He plucked my lily from its stem-- Sacred to all men under sun, But one!

HERE AND THERE.

Ah me, how hot and weary here in town The days crawl by! How otherwise they go my heart records, Where the marsh meadows lie And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.

Here the sun grins along the dusty street Beneath pale skies: Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries-- Through these I hear the song that the sea sings To the far meadowlands of Paradise.

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn-- O long sweet days-- O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay With sedge and water mace-- O fair marsh land desirable and dear-- How far from you lie my life's weary ways!

Yet in my darkest night there shines a star More fair than day; There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white In the sad city way. That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, That star shines only when the skies are gray.

For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane Before the light Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, And turn to noon our night: We fight for freedom and the souls of men-- Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

MOTHER.

A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,-- But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle hoards.

Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude.

Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar-- And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more.

A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY.

Across the grim, gray, northern sea The Danish warships went, Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men On blood and plunder bent; And they landed on a smiling land-- The garden-land of Kent.

They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn, They set the ricks aflame; They slew the men with axe and sword, They slew the maids with shame; Until, to Canterbury town, Made mad with blood, they came.

Archbishop Alphege walked the wall And looked down on the foe. "Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored, "While yet a man may go!" "Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried, "To shame your bishop so!

"What, would you have the shepherd flee, Like any hireling knave? What, leave my church, my poor--God's poor, To a dark and prayerless grave? No! by the body of my Lord, _My_ skin I will not save!"

And when men heard his true, strong word, They bore them as men should. For twenty nights and twenty days The foemen they withstood, And, day and night, shone tapers bright, And incense veiled the rood.

The warriors manned the walls without, The monks prayed on within, Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer And valour fared to win, Whispered a traitor, who stole out And let the foemen in.

Then through the quiet church there ran A sudden breath of fear; The monks made haste to bar the door, And hide the golden gear; And to their lord once more they cried, "Hide, hide! the foe is here!"

Through all the church's windows showed The sudden laugh of flame; Along the street went trampling feet, And through the smoke there came The voice of women, calling shrill Upon the Saviour's name.

And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried, "Nor meet such foes as these!" "Be still," he said, "hide if ye will, Live on, and take your ease! By my Lord's death, _my_ latest breath, Like His, shall speak of peace!"

He strode along the dusky aisle, And flung the church doors wide; Bright armour shone, and blazing homes Lit up the world outside, And in the streets reeled to and fro A bloody human tide.

The mailed barbarians laughed aloud To see the brave blood flow; They trampled on the breast and hair Of girls their swords laid low, And on the points of reeking spears Tossed babies to and fro.

Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed Against the dark red tide. "Forbear, your cup of guilt is full! Your sins are red," he cried; "Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom The King of Heaven died!"

Drunken with blood and lust of fight, Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane. "Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep Before thy foolish fane! Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep, That thou mayst know their pain!"

He stood, and saw his monks all slain; The altar steps ran red; In horrid heaps men lay about, The dying with the dead; And the east brightened, and the sky Grew rosy overhead.

Then from the church a tiny puff Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky, Out broke the fire, and flame on flame Leaped palely out on high, Till but the church's walls were left For men to know it by.

And when the sweet sun laughed again O'er fields and furrows brown, The brave archbishop hid his eyes, Until the tears dropped down On the charred blackness of the wreck Of Canterbury town.

* * * * *

"Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word Unto thy timid sheep, And bid them greaten up their hearts, And to our feet dare creep, And bring a ransom here which we, Instead of thee, may keep!"

Archbishop Alphege stood alone, Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed; Loaded with chains, with aching heart, And wounded in the side; And in his hour of utmost pain Thus to the Dane replied:

"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow Before this thing shall be; If I be held till ransom come, I never shall be free; For by God's heart, God's poor shall never Be robbed to ransom me!"

They flung him in a dungeon dark, They heaped on him fresh chains, They promised him unnumbered ills And unimagined pains; But still he said, "No English shall Be taxed to profit Danes!"

Six months passed by; no ransom came; Their threats had almost ceased, When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve, A great and brutal feast; And they sent and dragged the Christian man Before the pagan beast.

Down the great hall, from east to west, The long rough tables ran; They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer, And then the drink began-- At last in all that mighty hall Was not one sober man.

'Twas then they brought the bishop forth Before the drunken throng; And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried, "You are weak, and we are strong, Or, by the hand of Thor, you die-- We have borne with you too long!"

The savage faces of the Danes Leered redly all around; The bones of beasts and empty cups Lay heaped upon the ground, And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves The Christian saint stood bound.

He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes And knew what thing should be, Then spake: "By God, who died to save The poor, and me, and thee, Thou art not strong enough--God's poor Shall not be taxed for me!"

"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round The rising tumult ran. "I give my life, I give God's word, I give what gifts I can! Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves? Find you some other man!"

And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose With one fierce shout and yell; They flung at him the bones of beasts, They aimed right strong and well. "O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!" The bishop cried--and fell.

* * * * *

And so men call him "Saint," yet some Deemed this an unearned crown, Since 'twas not for the Church or faith He laid his brave life down; But otherwise men deemed of it In Canterbury town.

"Not for the Church he died," they said, "Yet he our saint shall be, Since for Christ's poor he gave his life, So for Christ's self died he. 'Who does it to the least of these, Has done it unto Me!'"

MORNING.

It was about the time of day When all the lawns with dew are wet; I wandered down a steep wood-way, And there I met with Margaret-- Her hands were full of boughs of may.

It was the merest chance we met: I could not find a word to say, And she was silent too--and yet For hand and lips I dared to pray-- And Margaret did not say me nay.

Still on my lips her kisses stay, Her eyes are like the violet; Will time take this joy, too, away, And ever teach me to forget-- And to forget without regret-- The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?

THE PRAYER.

They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me.

And if I asked of God or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees.

No, I should ask a greater grace-- A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee.

There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home.

But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not God laugh out in my face? Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this!

THE RIVER MAIDENS.

When autumn winds the river grieve, And autumn mists about it creep, The river maids all shivering leave The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.

The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow Alike are impotent to break The spell of sleep that laid them low-- The lovely ladies will not wake.

But when the spring with lavish grace Strews blossom on the river's breast, Flowers fall upon each sleeping face And break the deep and dreamless rest.

Then with white arms that gleam afar Through alders green and willows gray, They rise where sedge and iris are, And laugh beneath the blossomed May.

They lie beside the river's edge, By fields with buttercups a-blaze; They whisper in the whispering sedge, They say the spell the cuckoo says.