Chapter 2

Down fell her teardrops a pit-apat-pat, And red as a rose she grew;-- 'Kah! kah!' said the dwarf, 'is it crying you're at? It's the very worst thing you could do, do, do, It's the very worst thing you could do.'

He slipped like a monkey up into a tree, He shook her down cherries like rain; 'See now,' says he, cheeping, 'a blackbird I be, Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again-gain-gain, Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again.'

Ah me! what a strange, what a gladsome duet From a house i' the deeps of a wood! Such shrill and such harsh voices never met yet A-laughing as loud as they could-could-could, A-laughing as loud as they could.

Come Jinnie, come dwarf, cocksparrow, and bee, There's a ring gaudy-green in the dell, Sing, sing, ye sweet cherubs, that flit in the tree; La! who can draw tears from a well-well-well, Who ever drew tears from a well!

ALULVAN

The sun is clear of bird and cloud, The grass shines windless, grey, and still, In dusky ruin the owl dreams on, The cuckoo echoes on the hill; Yet soft along Alulvan's walks The ghost at noonday stalks.

His eyes in shadow of his hat Stare on the ruins of his house; His cloak, up-fasten'd with a brooch, Of faded velvet grey as mouse, Brushes the roses as he goes: Yet wavers not one rose.

The wild birds in a cloud fly up From their sweet feeding in the fruit; The droning of the bees and flies Rises gradual as a lute; Is it for fear the birds are flown, And shrills the insect-drone?

Thick is the ivy o'er Alulvan, And crisp with summer-heat its turf; Far, far across its empty pastures Alulvan's sands are white with surf: And he himself is grey as sea, Watching beneath an elder-tree.

All night the fretful, shrill Banshee Lurks in the chambers' dark festoons, Calling for ever, o'er garden and river, Through magpie changing of the moons: 'Alulvan, O, alas! Alulvan, The doom of lone Alulvan!'

THE PEDLAR

There came a Pedlar to an evening house; Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down, Wondered what man he was, so curious His black hair dangled on his tattered gown: Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes,-- 'What will you buy, sweetheart?--Here's honeycomb, And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies, Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom, To keep in water for to make night sweet: All that you want, sweetheart,--come, taste and eat!'

Ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her The clear remembrance of a gentle voice:-- 'And O! my child, should ever a flatterer Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be; Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song, Confuse his magic who is all mockery: His sweets are death.' Yet, still, how she doth long But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight, And hide her eyes from the delicious sight!

'What must I pay?' she whispered. 'Pay!' says he, 'Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam, One lock of hair is gold enough for me, For apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!' But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried, 'Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!' And many another woodland tongue beside Rose softly in the silence--'Trust him not!' Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice, 'What, in the thicket, is this idle noise?'

A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings, As through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew; Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings,-- 'What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you? Here's orange ribands, here's a string of pearls, Here's silk of buttercup and pansy glove, A pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls, A box of silver, scented sweet with clove: Come now,' he says, with dim and lifted face, 'I pass not often such a lonely place.'

'Pluck not a hair!' a hidden rabbit cried, 'With but one hair he'll steal thy heart away, Then only sorrow shall thy lattice hide: Go in! all honest pedlars come by day.' There was dead silence in the drowsy wood; 'Here's syrup for to lull sweet maids to sleep; And bells for dreams, and fairy wine and food All day thy heart in happiness to keep';-- And now she takes the scissors on her thumb,-- 'O, then, no more unto my lattice come!'

O sad the sound of weeping in the wood! Now only night is where the Pedlar was; And bleak as frost upon a too-sweet bud His magic steals in darkness, O alas! Why all the summer doth sweet Lettice pine? And, ere the wheat is ripe, why lies her gold Hid 'neath fresh new-pluckt sprigs of eglantine? Why all the morning hath the cuckoo tolled, Sad to and fro in green and secret ways, With lonely bells the burden of his days?

And, in the market-place, what man is this Who wears a loop of gold upon his breast, Stuck heartwise; and whose glassy flatteries Take all the townsfolk ere they go to rest Who come to buy and gossip? Doth his eye Remember a face lovely in a wood? O people! hasten, hasten, do not buy His woful wares; the bird of grief doth brood There where his heart should be; and far away Dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day!

THE GREY WOLF

'A fagot, a fagot, go fetch for the fire, son!' 'O, Mother, the wolf looks in at the door!' 'Cry Shoo! now, cry Shoo! thou fierce grey wolf fly, now; Haste thee away, he will fright thee no more.'

'I ran, O, I ran, but the grey wolf ran faster, O, Mother, I cry in the air at thy door, Cry Shoo! now, cry Shoo! but his fangs were so cruel, Thy son (save his hatchet) thou'lt never see more.'

THE OGRE

'Tis moonlight on Trebarwith Vale, And moonlight on an Ogre keen, Who prowling hungry through the dale A lone cottage hath seen.

Small with thin smoke ascending up Three casements and a door:-- The Ogre eager is to sup, And here seems dainty store.

Sweet as a larder to a mouse, So to him staring down, Seemed the sweet-windowed moonlit house, With jasmine overgrown.

He snorted, as the billows snort In darkness of the night, Betwixt his lean locks tawny-swart, He glowered on the sight.

Into the garden sweet with peas He put his wooden shoe, And bending back the apple trees Crept covetously through;

Then, stooping, with an impious eye Stared through the lattice small, And spied two children which did lie Asleep, against the wall.

Into their dreams no shadow fell, Of his disastrous thumb Groping discreet, and gradual, Across the quiet room.

But scarce his nail had scraped the cot Wherein these children lay, As if his malice were forgot, It suddenly did stay.

For faintly in the ingle-nook He heard a cradlesong, That rose into his thoughts and woke Terror them among.

For she who in the kitchen sat Darning by the fire, Guileless of what he would be at, Sang sweet as wind or wire:--

'Lullay, thou little tiny child, By-by, lullay, lullie; Jesu of glory, meek and mild, This night remember ye!

'Fiend, witch, and goblin, foul and wild, He deems 'em smoke to be; Lullay, thou little tiny child, By-by, lullay, lullie!'

The Ogre lifted up his eyes Into the moon's pale ray, And gazed upon her leopard-wise, Cruel and clear as day;

He snarled in gluttony and fear: 'The wind blows dismally, Jesu in storm my lambs be near, By-by, lullay, lullie!'

And like a ravenous beast which sees The hunter's icy eye, So did this wretch in wrath confess Sweet Jesu's mastery.

He lightly drew his greedy thumb From out that casement pale, And strode, enormous, swiftly home, Whinnying down the dale.

DAME HICKORY

'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory, Here's sticks for your fire, Furze-twigs, and oak-twigs, And beech-twigs, and briar!' But when old Dame Hickory came for to see, She found 'twas the voice of the false faerie.

'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory, Here's meat for your broth, Goose-flesh, and hare's flesh, And pig's trotters both!' But when old Dame Hickory came for to see, She found 'twas the voice of the false faerie.

'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory, Here's a wolf at your door, His teeth grinning white, And his tongue wagging sore!' 'Nay!' said Dame Hickory, 'ye false faerie!' But a wolf 'twas indeed, and famished was he.

'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory, Here's buds for your tomb, Bramble, and lavender, And rosemary bloom!' 'Hush!' said Dame Hickory, 'ye false faerie, Ye cry like a wolf, ye do, and trouble poor me.'

THE PILGRIM

'Shall we carry now your bundle, You old grey man?

Over hill and over meadow, Lighter than an owlet's shadow, We will whirl it through the air, Through blue regions shrill and bare;

Shall we carry now your bundle, You old grey man?'

The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes And saw three fiends, in the skies, Stooping o'er that lonely place Evil in form and face.

'O leave me, leave me, leave me, Ye three wild fiends!

Far it is my feet must wander, And my city lieth yonder; I must bear my bundle alone, Help nor solace suffer none:

O leave me, leave me, leave me, Ye three wild fiends!'

The fiends stared down with greedy eye, Fanning the chill air duskily, 'Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:--

'Shall we smooth the path before you, You old grey man?

Sprinkle it green with gilded showers, Strew it o'er with painted flowers? Shall we blow sweet airs on it, Lure the magpie there to flit?

Shall we smooth the path before you, You old grey man?'

'O silence, silence, silence! Ye three wild fiends!

Over bog, and fen, and boulder, I must bear it on my shoulder, Beaten of wind, torn of briar, Smitten of rain, parched of fire:

O silence, silence, silence! Ye three wild fiends!'

It seemed a smoke obscured the air, Bright lightning quivered in the gloom, And a faint voice of thunder spake Far in the lone hill-hollows--'Come!' Then half in fury, half in dread, The fiends drew closer down and said:--

'Grey old man but sleep awhile; Sad old man!

Thorn, and dust, and ice, and heat; Tarry now, sit down and eat; Heat, and ice, and dust, and thorn; Stricken, footsore, parched, forlorn,-- Juice of purple grape shall be Youth and solace unto thee.

With sweet wire and reed we'll haunt you; Songs of the valley shall enchant you; Rest now, lest this night you die: Sweet be now our lullaby:

'Grey old man, come sleep awhile, Stubborn old man!'

The pilgrim crouches terrified At stooping hood, and glassy face, Gloating, evil, side by side; Terror and hate brood o'er the place; He flings his withered hands on high With a bitter, breaking cry:--

'Leave me, leave me, leave me, leave me, Ye three wild fiends: If I lay me down in slumber, Then I lay me down in wrath; If I stir not in sweet dreaming, Then I wither in my path; If I hear sweet voices singing, 'Tis a demon's lullaby, And in "hideous storm and terror" Wake but to die!'

And even while he spake, the sun From the sweet hills pierced the gloom, Kindling th' affrighted fiends upon. Wild flapped their wings, as if in doom, He heard a dismal hooting laughter:--

Nought but a little rain fell after, And from the cloud whither they flew A storm-sweet lark rose in the blue: And his bundle seemed of flowers In his solitary hours.

THE GAGE

'Lady Jane, O Lady Jane! Your hound hath broken bounds again, And chased my timorous deer, O; If him I see, That hour he'll dee; My brakes shall be his bier, O.'

'Lord Aërie, Lord Aërie, My hound, I trow, is fleet and free, He's welcome to your deer, O; Shoot, shoot you may, He'll gang his way, Your threats we nothing fear, O.'

He's fetched him in, he's fetched him in, Gone all his swiftness, all his din, White fang, and glowering eye, O: 'Here is your beast, And now at least My herds in peace shall lie, O.'

"In peace!" my lord, O mark me well! For what my jolly hound befell You shall sup twenty-fold, O! For every tooth Of his, i'sooth, A stag in pawn I hold, O.

'Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn, Shall scare your heaths and coverts lorn, Braying 'em shrill and clear, O; But lone and still Shall lift each hill, Each valley wan and sere, O.

'Ride up you may, ride down you may, Lonely or trooped, by night or day, My hound shall haunt you ever: Bird, beast, and game Shall dread the same, The wild fish of your river.'

Her cheek is like the angry rose, Her eye with wrath and pity flows: He gazes fierce and round, O,-- 'Dear Lord!' he says, 'What loveliness To waste upon a hound, O.

'I'd give my stags, my hills and dales, My stormcocks and my nightingales To have undone this deed, O; For deep beneath My heart is death Which for her love doth bleed, O.'

Wanders he up, wanders he down, On foot, a-horse, by night and noon: His lands are bleak and drear, O; Forsook his dales Of nightingales, Forsook his moors of deer, O.

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth; There's nothing lightsome left on earth: Only one scene is fain, O, Where far remote The moonbeams gloat, And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an eve when lone he went, Gnawing his beard in dreariment, Lo! from a thicket hidden, Lovely as flower In April hour, Steps forth a form unbidden.

'Get ye now down, Lord Aërie, I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,' She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O; 'The hound is dead, When all is said, But love is past belief, O.

'Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see, Forlorn and still--and all for me, All for a foolish curse, O; Now here am I Come out to die, To live unlov'd is worse, O!'

In faith, this lord, in that lone dale, Hears now a sweeter nightingale, And lairs a tend'rer deer, O; His sorrow goes Like mountain snows In waters sweet and clear, O!

Let the hound bay in Shadowland, Tuning his ear to understand What voice hath tamed this Aërie; Chafe, chafe he may The stag all day, And never thirst nor weary.

Now here he smells, now there he smells, Winding his voice along the dells, Till grey flows up the morn, O; Then hies again To Lady Jane, No longer now forlorn, O.

Ay, as it were a bud, did break To loveliness for Aërie's sake, So she in beauty moving Rides at his hand Across his land, Beloved as well as loving.

AS LUCY WENT A-WALKING

As Lucy went a-walking one wintry morning fine, There sate three crows upon a bough, and three times three is nine: Then 'O!' said Lucy, in the snow, 'it's very plain to see A witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.'

Then stept she light and heedfully across the frozen snow, And plucked a bunch of elder-twigs that near a pool did grow: And, by and by, she comes to seven shadows in one place All stretched by seven poplar-trees against the sun's bright face.

She looks to left, she looks to right, and in the midst she sees A little well of water clear and frozen 'neath the trees; Then down beside its margent in the crusty snow she kneels, And hears a magic belfry a-ringing with sweet bells.

But when the belfry ceased to sound yet nothing could she see, Save only frozen water in the shadow of the tree. But presently she lifted up her eyes along the snow, And sees a witch in brindled shawl a-frisking to and fro.

Her shoes were buckled scarlet that capered to and fro, And all her rusty locks were wreathed with twisted mistletoe; But never a dint, or mark, or print, in the whiteness for to see, Though danced she high, though danced she fast, though danced she lissomely.

It seemed 'twas diamonds in the air, or little flakes of frost; It seemed 'twas golden smoke around, or sunbeams lightly tost; It seemed an elfin music like to reeds and warblers rose: 'Nay!' Lucy said, 'it is the wind that through the branches flows.'

And as she peeps, and as she peeps, 'tis no more one, but three, And eye of bat, and downy wing of owl within the tree, And the bells of that sweet belfry a-pealing as before, And now it is not three she sees, and now it is not four.

'O! who are ye,' sweet Lucy cries, 'that in a dreadful ring, All muffled up in brindled shawls, do caper, frisk, and spring?' 'A witch and witches, one and nine,' they straight to her reply, And looked upon her narrowly, with green and needle eye.

Then Lucy sees in clouds of gold sweet cherry-trees upgrow, And bushes of red roses that bloomed above the snow; She smells all faint the almond-boughs that blow so wild and fair, And doves with milky eyes ascend fluttering in the air.

Clear flow'rs she sees, like tulip buds, go floating by like birds, With wavering tips that warbled sweetly strange enchanted words; And as with ropes of amethyst the boughs with lamps were hung, And clusters of green emeralds like fruit upon them clung.

'O witches nine, ye dreadful nine, O witches seven and three! Whence come these wondrous things that I this Christmas morning see?' But straight, as in a clap, when she of Christmas says the word, Here is the snow, and there the sun, but never bloom nor bird;

Nor warbling flame, nor gloaming-rope of amethyst there shows, Nor bunches of green emeralds, nor belfry, well, and rose, Nor cloud of gold, nor cherry-tree, nor witch in brindled shawl, But like a dream which vanishes, so vanished were they all.

When Lucy sees, and only sees, three crows upon a bough, And earthly twigs, and bushes hidden white in driven snow, Then 'O!' said Lucy, 'three times three is nine--I plainly see Some witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.'

THE ENGLISHMAN

I met a sailor in the woods, A silver ring wore he, His hair hung black, his eyes shone blue, And thus he said to me:--

'What country, say, of this round earth, What shore of what salt sea, Be this, my son, I wander in, And looks so strange to me?'

Says I, 'O foreign sailorman, In England now you be, This is her wood, and this her sky, And that her roaring sea.'

He lifts his voice yet louder, 'What smell be this,' says he, 'My nose on the sharp morning air Snuffs up so greedily?'

Says I, 'It is wild roses Do smell so winsomely, And winy briar too,' says I, 'That in these thickets be.'

'And oh!' says he, 'what leetle bird Is singing in yon high tree, So every shrill and long-drawn note Like bubbles breaks in me?'

Says I, 'It is the mavis That perches in the tree, And sings so shrill, and sings so sweet, When dawn comes up the sea.'

At which he fell a-musing, And fixed his eye on me, As one alone 'twixt light and dark A spirit thinks to see

'England!' he whispers soft and harsh, 'England!' repeated he, 'And briar, and rose, and mavis, A-singing in yon high tree.

'Ye speak me true, my leetle son, So--so, it came to me, A-drifting landwards on a spar, And grey dawn on the sea.

'Ay, ay, I could not be mistook; I knew them leafy trees, I knew that land so witcherie sweet, And that old noise of seas.

'Though here I've sailed a score of years, And heard 'em, dream or wake, Lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek, On sand and coral break;

'"Yet now, my leetle son," says I, A-drifting on the wave, "That land I see so safe and green Is England, I believe.

'"And that there wood is English wood, And this here cruel sea, The selfsame old blue ocean Years gone remembers me,

"A-sitting with my bread and butter Down ahind yon chitterin' mill; And this same Marinere"--(that's me), "Is that same leetle Will!--

"That very same wee leetle Will Eating his bread and butter there, A-looking on the broad blue sea Betwixt his yaller hair!"

'And here be I, my son, throwed up Like corpses from the sea, Ships, stars, winds, tempests, pirates past, Yet leetle Will I be!'

He said no more, that sailorman, But in a reverie Stared like the figure of a ship With painted eyes to sea.

THE PHANTOM

'Upstairs in the large closet, child, This side the blue-room door, Is an old Bible, bound in leather, Standing upon the floor;

'Go with this taper, bring it me; Carry it on your arm; It is the book on many a sea Hath stilled the waves' alarm.'

Late the hour, dark the night, The house is solitary, Feeble is a taper's light To light poor Ann to see.

Her eyes are yet with visions bright Of sylph and river, flower and fay, Now through a narrow corridor She takes her lonely way.

Vast shadows on the heedless walls Gigantic loom, stoop low: Each little hasty footfall calls Hollowly to and fro.

In the dim solitude her heart Remembers tearlessly White winters when her mother was Her loving company.

Now in the dark clear glass she sees A taper mocking hers,-- A phantom face of light blue eyes, Reflecting phantom fears.

Around her loom the vacant rooms, Wind the upward stairs, She climbs on into a loneliness Only her taper shares.

Her grandmother is deaf with age; A garden of moonless trees Would answer not though she should cry In anguish on her knees.

So that she scarcely heeds--so fast Her pent-up heart doth beat-- When, faint along the corridor, Falleth the sound of feet:--

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet Violin and 'cello wake Music for twirling feet.

O! in an old unfriendly house, What shapes may not conceal Their faces in the open day, At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear To languish small and blue; Far in the woods the winter wind Runs whistling through.

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair, Her mouth is stretched to cry, But sudden, with a gush of joy, It narrows to a sigh.

It is a wilding child which comes Swift through the corridor, Singing an old forgotten song, This ancient burden bore:--

'Thorn, thorn, I wis, And roses twain, A red rose and a white, Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss A lonely child good-night.

'Swim fish, sing bird, And sigh again, I that am lost am lone, Bee in the blossom never stirred Locks hid beneath a stone!'--

Her eye was of the azure fire That hovers in wintry flame; Her raiment wild and yellow as furze That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower, But on her head a wreath Of faded flag-flowers that did yet Smell sweetly after death.