Chapter 6

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve; Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve. At length the water-bed took a curve, The deep river swept its bank-side bare; Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,-- Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below, Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow, Like hill-torrents after the snow,-- Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,-- He must swim for his life.

Which way?--which way?--his eyes grew dim With the dizzying whirl,--which way to swim? The thunderous downshoot deafened him; Half he choked in the lashing spray: Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,-- Which way?--which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand: "This way,--this way; here lies the land!" His phial clutched in one drowning hand; He catches,--misses,--catches a rope; His feet slip on the slipping sand: Is there life?--is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath,-- Scarcely saved from the gulp of death; Laid where a willow shadoweth,-- Laid where a swelling turf is smooth. (O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth For all thy sweet youth.)

Kind hands do and undo, Kind voices whisper and coo: "I will chafe his hands,"--"and I,"--"and you Raise his head, put his hair aside." (If many laugh, one well may rue: Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care: One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair; Two chafed his hands, and did not spare; But one propped his head that drooped awry Till his eyes oped, and at unaware They met eye to eye.

O, a moon face in a shadowy place, And a light touch and a winsome grace, And a thrilling tender voice which says: "Safe from waters that seek the sea,-- Cold waters by rugged ways,-- Safe with me."

While overhead bird whistles to bird, And round about plays a gamesome herd: "Safe with us,"--some take up the word,-- "Safe with us, dear lord and friend: All the sweeter if long deferred Is rest in the end."

Had he stayed to weigh and to scan, He had been more or less than a man: He did what a young man can, Spoke of toil and an arduous way,-- Toil to-morrow, while golden ran The sands of to-day.

Slip past, slip fast, Uncounted hours from first to last, Many hours till the last is past, Many hours dwindling to one,-- One hour whose die is cast, One last hour gone.

Come, gone,--gone forever,-- Gone as an unreturning river,-- Gone as to death the merriest liver,-- Gone as the year at the dying fall,-- To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never,-- Gone once for all.

Came at length the starting-day, With last words, and last, last words to say, With bodiless cries from far away,-- Chiding wailing voices that rang Like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray; And thus they sang:

"Is there life?--the lamp burns low; Is there hope?--the coming is slow: The promise promised so long ago, The long promise, has not been kept. Does she live?--does she die?--she slumbers so Who so oft has wept.

"Does she live?--does she die?--she languisheth As a lily drooping to death, As a drought-worn bird with failing breath, As a lovely vine without a stay, As a tree whereof the owner saith, 'Hew it down to-day.'"

Stung by that word the Prince was fain To start on his tedious road again. He crossed the stream where a ford was plain, He clomb the opposite bank though steep, And swore to himself to strain and attain Ere he tasted sleep.

Huge before him a mountain frowned With foot of rock on the valley ground, And head with snows incessant crowned, And a cloud mantle about its strength, And a path which the wild goat hath not found In its breadth and length.

But he was strong to do and dare: If a host had withstood him there, He had braved a host with little care In his lusty youth and his pride, Tough to grapple though weak to snare. He comes, O Bride.

Up he went where the goat scarce clings, Up where the eagle folds her wings, Past the green line of living things, Where the sun cannot warm the cold,-- Up he went as a flame enrings Where there seems no hold.

Up a fissure barren and black, Till the eagles tired upon his track, And the clouds were left behind his back,-- Up till the utmost peak was past. Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack; He paused at last.

Before his face a valley spread Where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread, Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed, Where all birds made love to their kind, Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red And not hard to find.

Midway down the mountain side (On its green slope the path was wide) Stood a house for a royal bride, Built all of changing opal stone, The royal palace, till now descried In his dreams alone.

Less bold than in days of yore, Doubting now though never before, Doubting he goes and lags the more: Is the time late? does the day grow dim? Rose, will she open the crimson core Of her heart to him?

Above his head a tangle glows Of wine-red roses, blushes, snows, Closed buds and buds that unclose, Leaves, and moss, and prickles too; His hand shook as he plucked a rose, And the rose dropped dew.

Take heart of grace! the portion of Life May go far to woo him a wife: If she frown, yet a lover's strife Lightly raised can be laid again: A hasty word is never the knife To cut love in twain.

Far away stretched the royal land, Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned: Light labor more, and his foot would stand On the threshold, all labor done; Easy pleasure laid at his hand, And the dear Bride won.

His slackening steps pause at the gate,-- Does she wake or sleep?--the time is late,-- Does she sleep now, or watch and wait? She has watched, she has waited long, Watching athwart the golden grate With a patient song.

Fling the golden portals wide, The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride; Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside, Let them look on each other's face, She in her meekness, he in his pride,-- Day wears apace.

Day is over, the day that wore. What is this that comes through the door, The face covered, the feet before? This that coming takes his breath; This Bride not seen, to be seen no more Save of Bridegroom Death?

Veiled figures carrying her Sweep by yet make no stir; There is a smell of spice and myrrh, A bride-chant burdened with one name; The bride-song rises steadier Than the torches' flame:

"Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread."

MAIDEN-SONG.

Long ago and long ago, And long ago still, There dwelt three merry maidens Upon a distant hill. One was tall Meggan, And one was dainty May, But one was fair Margaret, More fair than I can say, Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, And when May pulled the brier, Half the birds would swoop to see, Half the beasts draw nigher; Half the fishes of the streams Would dart up to admire: But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, Or poppy hot aflame, All the beasts and all the birds And all the fishes came To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew In brisk morning air, Strawberry leaves and May-dew Make maidens fair. "I go for strawberry-leaves," Meggan said one day: "Fair Margaret can bide at home, But you come with me, May; Up the hill and down the hill, Along the winding way, You and I are used to go."

So these two fair sisters Went with innocent will Up the hill and down again, And round the homestead hill: While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen, Like a blush-rose, like the moon In her heavenly sheen, Fragrant-breathed as milky cow Or field of blossoming bean, Graceful as an ivy bough Born to cling and lean; Thus she sat to sing and sew.

When she raised her lustrous eyes A beast peeped at the door; When she downward cast her eyes A fish gasped on the floor; When she turned away her eyes A bird perched on the sill, Warbling out its heart of love, Warbling, warbling still, With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May with Meggan Sought the choicest spot, Clothed with thyme-alternate grass: Then, while day waxed hot, Sat at ease to play and rest, A gracious rest and play; The loveliest maidens near or far, When Margaret was away, Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, Wind-play tossed their hair, Creeping things among the grass Stroked them here and there; Meggan piped a merry note, A fitful, wayward lay, While shrill as bird on topmost twig Piped merry May; Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale, Mounting like a flame, All on fire to hear and see With floating locks he came. Looked neither north nor south, Neither east nor west, But sat him down at Meggan's feet As love-bird on his nest, And wooed her with a silent awe, With trouble not expressed; She sang the tears into his eyes, The heart out of his breast: So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast, The words out of his tongue; Hand and foot and pulse he paused Till her song was sung. Then he spoke up from his place Simple words and true: "Scanty goods have I to give, Scanty skill to woo; But I have a will to work, And a heart for you: Bid me stay or bid me go."

Then Meggan mused within herself: "Better be first with him, Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, Who shines my brightness dim, Forever second where she sits, However fair I be: I will be lady of his love, And he shall worship me; I will be lady of his herds And stoop to his degree, At home where kids and fatlings grow."

Sped a shepherd from the height Headlong down to look, (White lambs followed, lured by love Of their shepherd's crook): He turned neither east nor west, Neither north nor south, But knelt right down to May, for love Of her sweet-singing mouth; Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks In parching hillside drouth; Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song With maiden coy caprice In a labyrinth of throbs, Pauses, cadences; Clear-noted as a dropping brook, Soft-noted like the bees, Wild-noted as the shivering wind Forlorn through forest trees: Love-noted like the wood-pigeon Who hides herself for love, Yet cannot keep her secret safe, But cooes and cooes thereof: Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath; Speechless, who listened well; Could not speak or think or wish Till silence broke the spell. Then he spoke, and spread his hands Pointing here and there: "See my sheep and see the lambs, Twin lambs which they bare. All myself I offer you, All my flocks and care, Your sweet song hath moved me so."

In her fluttered heart young May Mused a dubious while: "If he loves me as he says"-- Her lips curved with a smile: "Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine but like a moon; If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon; At cockcrow we were sister-maids, We may be brides at noon." Said Meggan, "Yes"; May said not "No."

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, Awhile she sang her song, Awhile sat silent, then she thought: "My sisters loiter long." That sultry noon had waned away, Shadows had waxen great: "Surely," she thought within herself, "My sisters loiter late." She rose, and peered out at the door, With patient heart to wait, And heard a distant nightingale Complaining of its mate; Then down the garden slope she walked, Down to the garden gate, Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes Like summer lightning fair, Like rising of the haloed moon Lightened her glimmering hair, While her face lightened like the sun Whose dawn is rosy white. Thus crowned with maiden majesty She peered into the night, Looked up the hill and down the hill, To left hand and to right, Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness She marked the nightingale Telling, if any one would heed, Its old complaining tale. Then lifted she her voice and sang, Answering the bird: Then lifted she her voice and sang, Such notes were never heard From any bird when Spring's in blow.

The king of all that country Coursing far, coursing near, Curbed his amber-bitted steed, Coursed amain to hear; All his princes in his train, Squire, and knight, and peer, With his crown upon his head, His sceptre in his hand, Down he fell at Margaret's knees Lord king of all that land, To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird and fish Came mustering to the sound, Every man and every maid From miles of country round: Meggan on her herdsman's arm, With her shepherd, May, Flocks and herds trooped at their heels Along the hillside way; No foot too feeble for the ascent, Not any head too gray; Some were swift and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home In their marriage mirth; Sang free birds out of the sky, Beasts along the earth, Sang up fishes of the deep,-- All breathing things that move Sang from far and sang from near To her lovely love; Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king Straightway to her feet, Sang him silent where he knelt In eager anguish sweet. But when the clear voice died away, When longest echoes died, He stood up like a royal man And claimed her for his bride. So three maids were wooed and won In a brief May-tide, Long ago and long ago.

JESSIE CAMERON.

"Jessie, Jessie Cameron, Hear me but this once," quoth he. "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you," quoth she. Day was verging toward the night There beside the moaning sea, Dimness overtook the light There where the breakers be. "O Jessie, Jessie Cameron, I have loved you long and true."-- "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you."

She was a careless, fearless girl, And made her answer plain; Outspoken she to earl or churl, Kind-hearted in the main, But somewhat heedless with her tongue, And apt at causing pain; A mirthful maiden she and young, Most fair for bliss or bane. "O, long ago I told you so, I tell you so to-day: Go you your way, and let me go Just my own free way."

The sea swept in with moan and foam Quickening the stretch of sand; They stood almost in sight of home; He strove to take her hand. "O, can't you take your answer then, And won't you understand? For me you're not the man of men, I've other plans are planned. You're good for Madge, or good for Cis, Or good for Kate, may be: But what's to me the good of this While you're not good for me?"

They stood together on the beach, They two alone, And louder waxed his urgent speech, His patience almost gone: "O, say but one kind word to me, Jessie, Jessie Cameron."-- "I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she, And pride was in her tone. And pride was in her lifted head, And in her angry eye, And in her foot, which might have fled, But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood, That in his heart was guile: Yet he had gone through fire and flood Only to win her smile. Some say his grandam was a witch, A black witch from beyond the Nile, Who kept an image in a niche And talked with it the while. And by her hut far down the lane Some say they would not pass at night, Lest they should hear an unked strain Or see an unked sight.

Alas, for Jessie Cameron!-- The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher: She should have hastened to be gone,-- The sea swept higher, breaking by her: She should have hastened to her home While yet the west was flushed with fire, But now her feet are in the foam, The sea-foam, sweeping higher. O mother, linger at your door, And light your lamp to make it plain; But Jessie she comes home no more, No more again.

They stood together on the strand, They only, each by each; Home, her home, was close at hand, Utterly out of reach. Her mother in the chimney nook Heard a startled sea-gull screech, But never turned her head to look Towards the darkening beach: Neighbors here and neighbors there Heard one scream, as if a bird Shrilly screaming cleft the air:-- That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more, Comes home never; Her lover's step sounds at his door No more forever. And boats may search upon the sea And search along the river, But none know where the bodies be: Sea-winds that shiver, Sea-birds that breast the blast, Sea-waves swelling, Keep the secret first and last Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round With its pitiless flow, That when they would have gone they found No way to go; Whether she scorned him to the last With words flung to and fro, Or clung to him when hope was past, None will ever know: Whether he helped or hindered her, Threw up his life or lost it well, The troubled sea, for all its stir, Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying Have thought they heard one pray, Wordless, urgent; and replying, One seem to say him nay: And watchers by the dead have heard A windy swell from miles away, With sobs and screams, but not a word Distinct for them to say: And watchers out at sea have caught Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there, Come and gone as quick as thought, Which might be hand or hair.

SPRING QUIET.

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing;

Where in the white-thorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs, Arching high over A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be."

THE POOR GHOST.

"O whence do you come, my dear friend, to me, With your golden hair all fallen below your knee, And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea, And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?"

"From the other world I come back to you, My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew. You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too."

"O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray; O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away: Here I feel warm and well-content and gay: Give me another year, another day."

"Am I so changed in a day and a night That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright, Is fain to turn away to left or right, And cover up his eyes from the sight?"

"Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend, I loved you for life, but life has an end; Through sickness I was ready to tend; But death mars all, which we cannot mend.

"Indeed I loved you; I love you yet If you will stay where your bed is set, Where I have planted a violet Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet."

"Life is gone, then love too is gone, It was a reed that I leant upon: Never doubt I will leave you alone And not wake you rattling bone with bone.

"I go home alone to my bed, Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head, Roofed in with a load of lead, Warm enough for the forgotten dead.

"But why did your tears soak through the clay, And why did your sobs wake me where I lay? I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."

A PORTRAIT.

I.