Part 13

“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley, Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.

“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef, And I sank among my hair, and all my palm Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.

“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither-- Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.

“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight, I sought him in great forests, and in waters Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.

“And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter, Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me, Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.

“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward To the forest where I missed him; and no voices Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,

“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew, And no mark of little footsteps any farther, And knew my little daughter had gone also.”

* * * * *

But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke, The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep, And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.

And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate, The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl, And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.

And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside, The slimy, speckled snake among the grass, The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.

The dog in lonely places cried not over The body of his master; but it missed him, And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.

The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway, And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.

The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint, And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.

The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle, Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot, And wakened,--and the cradle there was empty.

I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing; And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway, And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter, And flung the dead white bird across the threshold; And another white bird flitted round and round it,

And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered, And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy, Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.

* * * * *

So far, so far to seek for were the limits Of affliction; and men’s terror grew a homeless Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction, There was no visible presence of bereavement, Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell, Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes, Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.

There were no kisses on familiar faces, No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows, There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading, Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking How near the well-beloved ones are lying. There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation, The shadow of the passing of an angel, And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_But I woke_, And, lo! the burthen was uplifted, And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered, And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eased my heart three days by watching near her, And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers, And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly, And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.

And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption, I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy, Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.

“I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort, The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,-- For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”

The Faëry Foster-Mother.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay! I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day, I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee, When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three, They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear, They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here, They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can, Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!

Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still? Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill; But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro, ’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe? And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone, ’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own? And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away, Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!

Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King! Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering, Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin, Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in, Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees, To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,-- I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk, Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!

Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin, Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin; Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf, Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself; And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me, I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee, And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife, Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!

Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me, Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee; For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe, To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know; It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call, My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all! If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave, Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee! If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree, To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine, To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,-- I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes, And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs, And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away, Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!

When we Two parted.

[Sidenote: LORD BYRON]

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half-broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me-- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:-- Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-- In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How shall I greet thee?-- With silence and tears.

Stanzas for Music.

[Sidenote: LORD BYRON]

There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean’s pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull’d winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o’er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant’s asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

Colin’s Cattle.

(Crodh Chaillean.)

[Sidenote: CRO’ CHAILLEAN]

A maiden sang sweetly As a bird on a tree, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean for me!

My own Colin’s cattle, Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, They return to the milking At the close of the day.

In the morning they wander To their pastures afar, Where the grass grows the greenest By corrie and scaur.

They wander the uplands Where the soft breezes blow, And they drink from the fountain Where the sweet cresses grow.

But so far as they wander, Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, They return to the milking At the close of the day.

My bed’s in the Shian On the canach’s soft down, But I’d sleep best with Colin In our shieling alone.

Thus a maiden sang sweetly As a bird on a tree, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean for me.

MacCrimmon’s Lament.

[Sidenote: CUMHA MHIC CRUIMEIN]

Round Coolin’s peak the mist is sailing, The banshee croons her note of wailing, Mild blue eyne with sorrow are streaming For him that shall never return, MacCrimmon!

The breeze on the brae is mournfully blowing! The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing, The warblers, the soul of the groves, are moaning, For MacCrimmon that’s gone, with no hope of returning!

The tearful clouds the stars are veiling, The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing, The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning For MacCrimmon that’s gone to find no returning!

No more on the hill at the festal meeting The pipe shall sound with echo repeating, And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning For him that is gone to know no returning!

No more, no more, no more for ever, In war or peace, shall return MacCrimmon; No more, no more, no more for ever Shall love or gold bring back MacCrimmon!

Song.

[Sidenote: IAN CAMERON

(“Ian Mòr”)]

Thy dark eyes to mine, Aithne, Lamps of desire! O how my soul leaps Leaps to their fire!

Sure, now, if I in heaven Dreaming in bliss, Heard but the whisper, But the lost echo even Of one such kiss--

All of the Soul of me Would leap afar-- If that called me to thee, Aye, I would leap afar A falling star!

A Loafer.

[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON]

I hang about the streets all day, At night I hang about; I sleep a little when I may, But rise betimes the morning’s scout; For through the year I always hear Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.

My clothes are worn to threads and loops; My skin shows here and there; About my face like seaweed droops My tangled beard, my tangled hair; From cavernous and shaggy brows My stony eyes untroubled stare.

I move from eastern wretchedness Through Fleet Street and the Strand; And as the pleasant people press I touch them softly with my hand, Perhaps I know that still I go Alive about a living land.

For, far in front the clouds are riven; I hear the ghostly cry, As if a still voice fell from heaven To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie In sepulchres no tempest stirs And only eyeless things pass by.

In Piccadilly spirits pass: Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow! Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas, The lustrous health is earth I know From shrinking eyes that recognise No brother in my rags and woe.

I know no handicraft, no art, But I have conquered fate; For I have chosen the better part, And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. With placid breath on pain and death, My certain alms, alone I wait.

And daily, nightly comes the call, The pale unechoing note, The faint “Aha!” sent from the wall Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat Of human breed or seraph’s seed, A phantom voice that cries by rote.

In Romney Marsh.

[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON]

As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, I heard the South sing o’er the land; I saw the yellow sunlight fall On knolls where Norman churches stand.

And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, Within the wind a core of sound, The wire from Romney town to Hythe Along its airy journey wound.

A veil of purple vapour flowed And trailed its fringe along the Straits; The upper air like sapphire glowed: And roses filled Heaven’s central gates.

Masts in the offing wagged their tops; The swinging waves pealed on the shore; The saffron beach, all diamond drops And beads of surge, prolonged the roar.

As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, I saw above the Downs’ low crest The crimson brands of sunset fall, Flicker and fade from out the West.

Night sank: like flakes of silver fire The stars in one great shower came down; Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire Rang out from Hythe to Romney town.

The darkly shining salt sea drops Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; The beach, with all its organ stops Pealing again, prolonged the roar.

O’er the Muir amang the Heather.

[Sidenote: JEAN GLOVER]

Comin’ through the craigs o’ Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither.

O’er the muir amang the heather, O’er the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither.

Says I, My dear, where is thy hame? In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin’ heather. O’er the muir, etc.

We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunnie was the weather; She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather. O’er the muir, etc.

While thus we lay, she sang a sang, Till echo rang a mile and further; And aye the burden of the sang Was, O’er the muir amang the heather. O’er the muir, etc.

She charmed my heart, and aye sin syne I couldna’ think on ony ither; By sea and sky! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather.

O’er the muir amang the heather, O’er the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin’ a’ her flocks thegither.

Song.

[Sidenote: GEORGE MACDONALD]

Once I was a child, Oimè! Full of frolic wild; Oimè! All the stars for glancing, All the earth for dancing; Oimè! Oimè!

When I ran about, Oimè! All the flowers came out, Oimè! Here and there like stray things, Just to be my playthings. Oimè! Oimè!

Mother’s eyes were deep, Oimè! Never needing sleep. Oimè! Morning--they’re above me! Eventide--they love me! Oimè! Oimè!

Father was so tall! Oimè! Stronger he than all! Oimè! On his arm he bore me, Queen of all before me. Oimè! Oimè!

Mother is asleep! Oimè! For her eyes so deep, Oimè! Grew so tired and aching, They could not keep waking, Oimè! Oimè!

Father though so strong Oimè! Laid him down along-- Oimè! By my mother sleeping; And they left me weeping, Oimè! Oimè!

Now nor bird, nor bee, Oimè! Ever sings to me Oimè! Since they left me crying, All things have been dying. Oimè! Oimè!

Song.

[Sidenote: RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE]

Alas, alas, eheu! That the sky is only blue, To gather from the grass The rain and dew!

Alas! that eyes are fair: That tears may gather there Mist and the breath of sighs From the marsh of care!

Alas, alas, eheu! That we meet but to bid adieu: That the sands in Time’s ancient glass Are so swift and few!

Alas, alas, eheu! That the heart is only true To gather, where false feet pass, The thorn and rue!

A Spring Trouble.

[Sidenote: WILLIAM MACDONALD]

All the meadowlands were gay Once upon a morn of May; All the tree of life was dight With the blossoms of delight.

And my whole heart was a-tune With the songs of long ere noon-- Dew-bedecked and fresh and free, As the unsunned meadows be.

“Lo!” I said unto my spirit, “Earth and sky thou dost inherit.” Forth I wandered, void of care, In the largesse of the air.

By there came a damosel, At a look I loved her well: But she passed and would not stay-- And all the rest has gone away.

And now no fields are fair to see, Nor any bud on any tree; Nor have I share in earth or sky-- All for a maiden’s passing by!

Culloden Moor.

(Seen in Autumn Rain.)

[Sidenote: AMICE MACDONELL]

Full of grief, the low winds sweep O’er the sorrow-haunted ground; Dark the woods where night rains weep, Dark the hills that watch around.

Tell me, can the joy of spring Ever make this sadness flee, Make the woods with music ring, And the streamlet laugh for glee?

When the summer moor is lit With the pale fire of the broom, And through green the shadows flit, Still shall mirth give place to gloom?

Sad shall it be, though sun be shed Golden bright on field and flood; E’en the heather’s crimson red Holds the memory of blood.

Here that broken, weary band Met the ruthless foe’s array, Where those moss-grown boulders stand, On that dark and fatal day.

Like a phantom hope had fled, Love to death was all in vain, Vain, though heroes’ blood was shed, And though hearts were broke in twain.

Many a voice has cursed the name Time has into darkness thrust, Cruelty his only fame In forgetfulness and dust,

Noble dead that sleep below, We your valour ne’er forget; Soft the heroes’ rest who know Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

The Weaving of the Tartan.

[Sidenote: ALICE C. MACDONELL]

I saw an old Dame weaving, Weaving, weaving, I saw an old Dame weaving, A web of tartan fine. “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, “Wild torrent to the sea, That saw my exiled bairnies torn, In sorrow far frae me. And warp well the long threads, The bright threads, the strong threads; Woof well the cross threads, To make the colours shine.”

She wove in red for every deed, Of valour done for Scotia’s need: She wove in green, the laurel’s sheen, In memory of her glorious dead. She spake of Alma’s steep incline, The desert march, the “thin red line,” Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart, Where’er a bairn of hers took part. “‘Tis for the gallant lads,” she said, “Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid: ’Tis for the winsome lasses too, Just like my dainty bells of blue. So weave well the bright threads, The red threads, the green threads; Woof well the strong threads That bind their hearts to mine.”

I saw an old Dame sighing, Sighing, sighing; I saw an old Dame sighing, Beside a lonely glen. “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, “Wild tempests to the sea, The wailing of the pibroch’s note, That bade farewell to me. And wae fa’ the red deer, The swift deer, the strong deer, Wae fa’ the cursed deer, That take the place o’ men.”

Where’er a noble deed is wrought, Where’er the brightest realms of thought, The artists’ skill, the martial thrill, Be sure to Scotia’s land is wed. She casts the glamour of her name, O’er Britain’s throne and statesman’s fame; From distant lands ’neath foreign names, Some brilliant son his birthright claims. For ah!--she has reared them amid tempests, And cradled them in snow, To give the Scottish arms their strength, Their hearts a kindly glow. So weave well the bright threads, The red threads, the green threads, Woof well the strong threads That bind their hearts to thine.

The Thrush’s Song.

(From the Gaelic.)

[Sidenote: W. MACGILLIVRAY]

Dear, dear, dear, In the rocky glen, Far away, far away, far away The haunts of men; There shall we dwell in love With the lark and the dove, Cuckoo and corn-rail, Feast on the bearded snail, Worm and gilded fly, Drink of the crystal rill Winding adown the hill Never to dry. With glee, with glee, with glee Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here; Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily, Sing to the loved one whose nest is near.

_Qui, qui, queen, quip; Tiurru, tiurru, chipïwi, Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo, Chirri, chirri, chooee Quin, qui, qui!_

The Prayer of Women.

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]

O Spirit, that broods upon the hills And moves upon the face of the deep, And is heard in the wind, Save us from the desire of men’s eyes, And the cruel lust of them, And the springing of the cruel seed In that narrow house which is as the grave For darkness and loneliness ... That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, and long pain, Only for the laughter of man’s heart, And the joy that triumphs therein, And the sport that is in his heart, Wherewith he mocketh us, Wherewith he playeth with us, Wherewith he trampleth upon us ... Us, who conceive and bear him; Us, who bring him forth; Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee: Whom he calleth mother and wife, And mother again of his children and his children’s children. Ah, hour of the hours, When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey; And at our eyes and sees they are dim; And at our lips straightened out with long pain; And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill; And at our hands, worn with toil! Ah, hour of the hours, When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us-- All save the violated womb that curses him-- All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity-- All save the living brain that condemneth him-- All save the spirit that shall not mate with him All save the soul he shall never see Till he be one with it, and equal; He who hath the bridle, but guideth not; He who hath the whip, yet is driven; He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills! O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, Heal us of the wrong of man: We, whose breasts are weary with milk, Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!

The Rune of Age.

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]