Part 5

The church was full of silence. I shut in Its loss and loneliness, and went my way. Its sadness was not less its walls within Because I wore it in my heart that day, And many a day since, when I see again Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain The church's golden roof and arches gray.

* * * * *

Along wet roads, all shining with late rain, And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere, I came one day towards the church again. It was the spring-time of the day and year; The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear.

The sky behind the old gray church was gray-- Gray as my memories, and gray as I; The forlorn graves each side the grassy way Called to me "Brother!" as I passed them by. The door was open. "I shall feel again," I thought, "that inextinguishable pain Of longing loss and hopeless memory."

When--O electric flash of ecstasy! No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear-- A human voice, an angel's melody, God let me in that perfect moment hear. Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight, Of human striving to the heavenly light, Of great ideals, permanent and dear!

All the old dreams linked with the newer faith, All the old faith with higher dreams enwound, Surged through the very heart of loss and death In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound. The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid, The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed, The past's peace, and the future's faith profound.

"_Ave Maria, Gratiâ plena, Dominus tecum: Benedicta tu In mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, Ora pro nobis peccatoribus Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen._"

And all the soul of all the past was here-- A human heart that loved the great and good, A heart to which the great ideals were dear, One that had heard and that had understood, As I had done, the church's desolate moan, And answered it as I had never done, And never willed to do and never could.

I left the church, glad to the soul and strong, And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways; Safe in my heart the echo of that song Lived, as it will live with me all my days. The church will never lose that echo, nor Be quite as lonely ever any more; Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays.

RYE.

A little town that stands upon a hill, Against whose base the white waves once leaped high; Now spreading round it, even, green and still, The placid pastures of the marshes lie.

The red-roofed houses and the gray church tower Bear half asleep the sunshine and the rain; They wait, so long have waited, for the hour When the wild, welcome sea shall come again.

The lovely lights across the marshes pass, The dykes grow fair with blossom, reed and sedge; The patient beasts crop the long, cool, green grass, The willows shiver at the water's edge;

But the town sleeps, it will not wake for these. The sea some day again will round it break, Will surge across these leagues of pastoral peace, And then the little town will laugh, and wake.

THE BALLAD OF THE TWO SPELLS.

"Why dost thou weep?" the mass priest said; "Fair dame, why dost thou weep?" "I weep because my lord is laid In an enchanted sleep.

"It was upon our bridal day The bitter thing befel, My love and lord was lured away By an ill witch's spell.

"She lured him to her hidden bower Among the cypress trees, And there she holdeth manhood's flower Asleep across her knees."

"Pray to our Father for His aid, God knows ye need it sore." "O God of Heaven, have I not prayed? But I will pray no more.

"God will not listen to my prayer, And never a Saint will hear, Else should I stand beside him there, Or he be with me here.

"But there he sleeps--and I wake here And wet my bread with tears-- And still they say that God can hear, And still God never hears.

"If I could learn a mighty spell, Would get my love awake, I'd sell my soul alive to hell, And learn it for his sake.

"So say thy mass, and go thy way, And let my grief alone-- Teach thou the happy how to pray And leave the devil his own."

* * * * *

Within the witch's secret bower Through changeful day and night, Hour after priceless golden hour, Lay the enchanted knight.

The witch's arms about him lay, His face slept in her hair; The devil taught her the spell to say Because she was so fair.

And all about the bower were flowers And gems and golden gear, And still she watched the slow-foot hours Because he was so dear.

Watched in her tower among the trees For his long sleep to break; And still he lay across her knees And still he did not wake.

What whisper stirs the curtain's fold? What foot comes up the stair? What hand draws back the cloth of gold And leaves the portal bare?

The night wind sweeps through all the room, The tapers fleer and flare, And from the portal's outer gloom His true love enters there.

"Give place, thou wicked witch, give place, For his true wife is here, Who for his sake has lost heaven's grace Because he was so dear.

"My soul is lost and his is won; Thy spells his sleep did make, But I know thy spell, the only one Can get my lord awake."

The witch looked up, her shining eyes Gleamed through her yellow hair-- (She was cast out of Paradise Because she was so fair).

"Speak out the spell, thou loving wife, And what it beareth, bide, Go--bring thy lover back to life And give thy lord a bride."

The wife's soul burned in every word As low she spoke the spell, Weeping in heaven, her angel heard, One, hearing, laughed in hell.

And when the spell was spoken through, Sudden the knight awoke And turned his eyes upon the two-- And neither of them spoke.

He did not see his pale-faced wife Whom sorrow had made wise, He only saw the light of life Burn in the witch's eyes.

He only saw her bosom sweet, Her golden fleece of hair, And he fell down before her feet Because she was so fair.

She stooped and raised him from the floor And held him in her arms; She said: "He would have waked no more For any of my charms.

"You only could pronounce the spell Would set his spirit free; And you have sold your soul to hell And wakened him--for me!

"I hold him now by my blue eyes And by my yellow hair, He never will miss Paradise, Because I am so fair."

The wife looked back, looked back to see The golden-curtained place, Her lord's head on the witch's knee, Her gold hair on his face.

"I would my soul once more were mine, Then God my prayer would hear And slay my soul in place of thine Because thou art so dear!"

IN MEMORIAM

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

When you were tired and went away, I said, amid my new heart-ache: "When I catch breath from pain some day, I will teach grief a worthier way, And make a great song for his sake!"

Yet there is silence. O my friend, You gave me love such years ago-- A child who could not comprehend Its worth, yet kept it to the end-- How can I sing when you lie low?

Not always silence. O my dear, Not when the empty heart and hand Reach out for you, who are not near. If you could see, if you could hear, I think that you would understand.

The grief that can get leave to run In channels smooth of tender song Wins solace mine has never won. I have left all my work undone, And only dragged my grief along.

Many who loved you many years (Not more than I shall always do), Will breathe their songs in your dead ears; God help them if they weep such tears As I, who have no song for you.

You would forgive me, if you knew! Silence is all I have to bring (Where tears are many, words are few); I have but tears to bring to you, For, since you died, I cannot sing!

RONDEAU.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

Your dainty Muse her form arrays In soft brocades of bygone days. She walks old gardens where the dews Gem sundials and trim-cut yews And tremble on the tulip's blaze. The magic scent her charm conveys Which lives on when the rose decays. She had her portrait done by Greuze-- Your dainty Muse!

Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays, Is modern, is advanced, has views; Goes in for lectures, reads the news, And sends her homespun verse to praise Your dainty Muse!

RONDEAU.

TO W. E. HENLEY.

Dream and delight had passed away, Their springs dried by the dusty day, And sordid fetters bound me tight, Forged for poor song by money-might; I writhed, and could not get away. There might have been no flowering may In all the world--life looked so gray With dust of railways, choking quite Dream and delight.

When, lo! your white book came my way, With scent of honey-buds and hay, Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright, The rose blood-red, the may moon-white. I owe you--would I could repay-- Dream and delight.

TO WALTER SICKERT.

(IN RETURN FOR A SIGHT OF HIS PICTURE "RED CLOVER".)

There is a country far away from here-- A world of dreams--a fair enchanted land-- Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand, And all the seasons rhyme through all the year.

The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there; There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies; And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair.

Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear, The poet and the painter steal away To watch those glories of the night and day Which here the days and nights so seldom wear.

In that brave land I, too, have part and lot. Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns, Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs; Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not;

The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round; A certain wood where earliest violets grow; One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow; The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound--

These are my portion of enchanted ground, To these the years add somewhat in their flight; Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight, Becomes my own--treasure to her who found.

To my dream fields your art adds one field more, A field of red, red clover, blossoming, Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing Than ever in any field of mine before.

OLD AGE.

Between the midnight and the morn When wake the weary heart and head, Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.

I hear their cold, thin voices say: "Your youth is dying; by-and-by All that makes up your life to-day, Withered by age, will shrink and die!"

Will it be so? Will age slay all The dreams of love and hope and faith-- Put out the sun beyond recall, And lap us in a living death?

Will hearts grown old forget their youth? And hands grown old give up the strife? Shall we accept as ordered truth The dismal anarchy of life?

Better die now--at once be free Of hope and fear--renounce the whole: For of what worth would living be Should one--grown old--outlive one's soul?

Yet see: through curtains closely drawn Creeps in the exorcising light; The sacred fingers of the dawn Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.

And then I hear the brave Sun's voice, Though still the skies are gray and dim: "Old age comes never--Oh, rejoice-- Except to those who beckon him.

"All that youth's dreams are nourished by, By that shall dreams in age be fed-- Thy noble dreams can never die Until thyself shall wish them dead!"

INDEX.

PAGE

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ, 98 APRIL, 123

BABY SONG, 49 BALLAD OF CANTERBURY, 58 BALLAD OF SIR HUGH, 114 BALLAD OF TWO SPELLS, 145 BETROTHAL, THE, 80 BRIDAL BALLAD, 1

CHANGE, 92

DEATH-BED, A, 12 DEVIL'S DUE, THE, 20 DIRGE IN GRAY, A, 106

EAST-END TRAGEDY, AN, 53

FEBRUARY, 121

GARDEN, THE, 33 GHOST, THE, 5 GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE, A, 38

HERE AND THERE, 55

IN MEMORIAM PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, 151

JUNE, 125 JULY, 127

LAST THOUGHT, THE, 97 LIGHTHOUSE, THE, 110 LONDON'S VOICES, 40 LOST SOUL AND THE SAVED, THE, 14 LOVE:-- 1. THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR, 84 2. WORSHIP, 85 3. SPLENDIDE MENDAX, 87 LOVE IN JUNE, 30 LOVE SONG, 89 LULLABY, 51

MÉSALLIANCE, A, 96 MILL, THE, 93 MODERN JUDAS, THE, 7 MORNING, 67 MOTHER, 57

NOVEMBER, 129

OLD AGE, 157 ON THE MEDWAY, 73

PRAYER, THE, 68 PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES, 36 PRISON GATE, AT THE, 18 PRIVATE VIEW, AT THE, 103

QUARREL, THE, 90

RIVER MAIDENS, THE, 70 ROCHESTER CASTLE, 131 RONDEAU, A, 95 RONDEAU. TO AUSTIN DOBSON, 153 RONDEAU. TO W. E. HENLEY, 154 RUCKINGE CHURCH, 133 RYE, 144

SOUL TO THE IDEAL, THE, 10 SICK JOURNALIST, THE, 42

TEMPTATION, THE, 112 TO WALTER SICKERT, 155 TO A YOUNG POET, 111 TRAGEDY, A, 81 TWO LULLABIES, 45

WOMAN'S WORLD, THE, 108