Chapter 3

Clear was the light of loveliness That lit her face like rain; And sad the mouth that uttered Her immemorial strain.

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Gloomy with night the corridor Is now that she is gone, Albeit this solitary child No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down, Heavy and thick the tome, A beauty beyond fear to dim Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world malignant, grim, Vex many a wood, and glen, And house, and pool,--the unquiet ghosts Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie's house this spirit-- A child as lone as she-- Pining for love not found on earth, Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry-stool, Her fairy-book laid by, She gazes in the fire, knowing She hath sweet company.

THE MILLER AND HIS SON

A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.'

'The Miller went a-walking All in the forest high, He sees three doves a-flitting Against the dark blue sky:

'Says he, "My son, now follow These doves so white and free, That cry above the forest, And surely cry to thee."

"I go, my dearest Father, But O! I sadly fear, These doves so white will lead me far, But never bring me near."

'He kisses the Miller, He cries, "Awhoop to ye!" And straightway through the forest Follows the wood-doves three.

'There came a sound of weeping To the Miller in his Mill; Red roses in a thicket Bloomed over near his wheel;

'Three stars shone wild and brightly Above the forest dim: But never his dearest son Returns again to him.

'The cuckoo shall call "Cuckoo!" In vain along the vale, The linnet, and the blackbird, The mournful nightingale;

'The Miller hears and sees not, A-thinking of his son; His toppling wheel is silent; His grinding done.

'"Ye doves so white," he weepeth, "Ye roses on the tree, Ye stars that shine so brightly, Ye shine in vain for me!"

'I bade him follow, follow, He said, "O Father dear, These doves so white will lead me far But never bring me near!"'

A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.'

DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon, Gathering daisies In the meadows of Doone, Sees a white fairy Skip buxom and free Where the waters go brawling In rills to the sea; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon Through the green grasses Runs fleetly and soon, And lo! on a lily She sees one recline Whose eyes in her wee face Like the water-sparks shine; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, And shrill was her tune:-- 'Come to my water-house, Annie Maroon, Come in your pink gown, Your curls on your head, To wear the white samite And rubies instead'; Singing down-adown-derry.

'Down-adown-derry, Lean fish of the sea, Bring lanthorns for feasting The gay Faërie; And it's dancing on sand 'tis That's smoother than wool;-- Foam-fruit and wild honey To pleasure you full'; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon Looked large on the fairy Curled wan as the moon; And all the grey ripples To the Mill racing by, With harps and with timbrels Did ringing reply; Singing down-adown-derry.

'Down-adown-derry,' Sang the Fairy of Doone, Piercing the heart of Sweet Annie Maroon; And lo! when like roses The clouds of the sun Faded at dusk, gone Was Annie Maroon; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, The daisies are few; Frost twinkles powd'ry In haunts of the dew; Only the robin Perched on a white thorn, Can comfort the heart of A father forlorn; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, There's snow in the air; Ice where the lily Bloomed waxen and fair; He may call o'er the water, Cry--cry through the Mill, But Annie Maroon, alas! Answer ne'er will; Singing down-adown-derry.

THE SUPPER

A wolf he pricks with eyes of fire Across the night's o'ercrusted snows, Seeking his prey, He pads his way Where Jane benighted goes, Where Jane benighted goes.

He curdles the bleak air with ire, Ruffling his hoary raiment through, And lo! he sees Beneath the trees Where Jane's light footsteps go, Where Jane's light footsteps go.

No hound peals thus in wicked joy, He snaps his muzzle in the snows, His five-clawed feet Do scamper fleet Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows, Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows.

Now his greed's green doth gaze unseen On a pure face of wilding rose, Her amber eyes In fear's surprise Watch largely as she goes, Watch largely as she goes.

Salt wells his hunger in his jaws, His lust it revels to and fro, Yet small beneath A soft voice saith, 'Jane shall in safety go, Jane shall in safety go.'

He lurched as if a fiery lash Had scourged his hide, and through and through, His furious eyes O'erscanned the skies, But nearer dared not go, But nearer dared not go.

He reared like wild Bucephalus, His fangs like spears in him uprose, Ev'n to the town Jane's flitting gown He grins on as she goes, He grins on as she goes.

In fierce lament he howls amain, He scampers, marvelling in his throes What brought him there To sup on air, While Jane unarmèd goes, While Jane unarmèd goes.

THE ISLE OF LONE

Three dwarfs there were which lived on an isle, And the name of the isle was Lone, And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle, Lallerie, Muziomone.

Alliolyle was green of een, Lallerie light of locks, Muziomone was mild of mien, As ewes in April flocks.

Their house was small and sweet of the sea, And pale as the Malmsey wine; Their bowls were three, and their beds were three, And their nightcaps white were nine.

Their beds were of the holly-wood, Their combs of the tortoiseshell, Their mirrors clear as wintry flood, Frozen dark and snell.

So each would lie on his plumpy pillow, The moon for company, And hear the parrot scream to the billow, And the billow roar reply.--

Sulphur parrots, and parrots red, Scarlet, and flame, and green; And five-foot apes that jargonèd In feathery-tufted treen.

And oh, or ever the dawning shed On dreams a narrow flame, Three gaping dwarfs gat out of bed And gazed upon the same.

At dawn they fished, at noon they snared Young foxes in the dells, At even on dew-berries they fared, And blew in their twisted shells.

Dark was the sea they gambolled in, And thick with silver fish, Dark as green glass blown clear and thin To be a monarch's dish.

They sate to sup in a jasmine bower, Lit pale with flies of fire, Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower, And lemon their attire.

Sweet wine in little cups they sipped, And golden honeycomb Into their bowls of cream they dipped, Whipt light and white as foam.

Alliolyle, where the salt sea flows, Taught three old apes to sing, And there to the moon, like a full-blown rose, They capered in a ring.

But down to the shore skipped Lallerie, His parrot on his thumb, And the twain they scritched in mockery, While the dancers go and come.

So, alas! in the evening, rosy and still, Light-haired Lallerie Bitterly quarrelled with Alliolyle By the yellow-sanded sea.

The rising moon swam sweet and large Before their furious eyes, And they rolled and rolled to the coral marge Where the surf for ever cries.

Too late, too late, comes Muziomone: Clear in the clear green sea Alliolyle lies not alone, But clasped with Lallerie.

He blows on his shell plaintive notes; Ape, parraquito, bee Flock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,-- The shoe of Lallerie.

He fetches nightcaps, one and nine, Grey apes he dowers three, His house as fair as the Malmsey wine Seems sad as cypress-tree.

Three bowls he brims with honeycomb To feast the bumble bees, Saying, 'O bees, be this your home, For grief is on the seas!'

He sate him lone in a coral grot, At the flowing of the tide; When ebbed the billow, there was not, Save coral, aught beside.

So hairy apes in three white beds, And nightcaps, one and nine, On moonlit pillows lay three heads Bemused with dwarfish wine.

A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee, The grey apes' guttural groan For Alliolyle, for Lallerie, For thee, O Muziomone!

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

The scent of bramble sweets the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes.

How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days.

Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair.

In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees.

THE HORN

Hark! is that a horn I hear, In cloudland winding sweet-- And bell-like clash of bridle-rein, And silver-shod light feet?

Is it the elfin laughter of Fairies riding faint and high, 'Neath the branches of the moon, Straying through the starry sky?

Is it in the globèd dew Such sweet melodies may fall? Wood and valley--all are still, Hushed the shepherd's call.

Hark! is that a horn I hear In cloudland winding sweet? Or gloomy goblins marching out Their captain Puck to greet?

CAPTAIN LEAN

Out of the East a hurricane Swept down on Captain Lean-- That mariner and gentleman Will ne'er again be seen.

He sailed his ship against the foes Of his own country dear, But now in the trough of the billows An aimless course doth steer.

Powder was violets to his nostril, Sweet the din of the fighting-line, Now he is flotsam on the seas, And his bones are bleached with brine.

The stars move up along the sky, The moon she shines so bright, And in that solitude the foam Sparkles unearthly white.

This is the tomb of Captain Lean, Would a straiter please his soul? I trow he sleeps in peace, Howsoever the billows roll!

THE PORTRAIT OF A WARRIOR

His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable shine.

His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in.

He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land.

Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed nor death dismayed.

HAUNTED

From out the wood I watched them shine,-- The windows of the haunted house, Now ruddy as enchanted wine, Now dim as flittermouse.

There went a thin voice piping airs Along the grey and crooked walks,-- A garden of thistledown and tares, Bright leaves, and giant stalks.

The twilight rain shone at its gates, Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew; And black in silence to her mates A voiceless raven flew.

Lichen and moss the lone stones greened, Green paths led lightly to its door, Keen from her lair the spider leaned, And dusk to darkness wore.

Amidst the sedge a whisper ran, The West shut down a heavy eye, And like last tapers, few and wan, The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

THE RAVEN'S TOMB

'Build me my tomb,' the Raven said, 'Within the dark yew-tree, So in the Autumn yewberries Sad lamps may burn for me. Summon the haunted beetle, From twilight bud and bloom, To drone a gloomy dirge for me At dusk above my tomb. Beseech ye too the glowworm To bear her cloudy flame, Where the small, flickering bats resort, Whistling in tears my name. Let the round dew a whisper make, Welling on twig and thorn; And only the grey cock at night Call through his silver horn. And you, dear sisters, don your black For ever and a day, To show how sweet a raven In his tomb is laid away.'

THE CHRISTENING

The bells chime clear, Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down; Come, little Ann, your baby brother dear Lies in his christening-gown.

His godparents Are all across the fields stepped on before, And wait beneath the crumbling monuments, This side the old church door.

Your mammie dear Leans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm; Watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear, Lest he should come to harm.

All to be blest Full soon in the clear heavenly water, he Sleeps on unwitting of't, his little breast Heaving so tenderly.

I carried you, My little Ann, long since on this same quest, And from the painted windows a pale hue Lit golden on your breast;

And then you woke, Chill as the holy water trickled down, And, weeping, cast the window a strange look, Half smile, half infant frown.

I scarce could hear The larks a-singing in the green meadows, 'Twas summertide, and budding far and near The hedges thick with rose.

And now you're grown A little girl, and this same helpless mite Is come like such another bud half-blown, Out of the wintry night.

Time flies, time flies! And yet, bless me! 'tis little changed am I; May Jesu keep from tears those infant eyes, Be love their lullaby!

THE MOTHER BIRD

Through the green twilight of a hedge I peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed, And spied a bird upon a nest: Two eyes she had beseeching me Meekly and brave, and her brown breast Throbb'd hot and quick above her heart; And then she oped her dagger bill,-- 'Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe At break of day; 'twas not a trill, As falters through the quiet even; But one sharp solitary note, One desperate, fierce, and vivid cry Of valiant tears, and hopeless joy, One passionate note of victory: Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked, Smiling the smile the fool smiles best, At the mother bird in the secret hedge Patient upon her lonely nest.

THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED

I prythee, Nurse, come smooth my hair, And prythee, Nurse, unloose my shoe, And trimly turn my silken sheet Upon my quilt of gentle blue.

My pillow sweet of lavender Smooth with an amiable hand, And may the dark pass peacefully by As in the hour-glass droops the sand.

Prepare my cornered manchet sweet, And in my little crystal cup Pour out the blithe and flowering mead That forthwith I may sup.

Withdraw my curtains from the night, And let the crispèd crescent shine Upon my eyelids while I sleep, And soothe me with her beams benign.

From far-away there streams the singing Of the mellifluent nightingale,-- Surely if goblins hear her lay, They shall not o'er my peace prevail.

Now quench my silver lamp, prythee, And bid the harpers harp that tune Fairies which haunt the meadowlands Sing clearly to the stars of June.

And bid them play, though I in dreams No longer heed their pining strains, For I would not to silence wake When slumber o'er my senses wanes.

You Angels bright who me defend, Enshadow me with curvèd wing, And keep me in the darksome night Till dawn another day do bring.

THE CHILD IN THE STORY AWAKES

The light of dawn rose on my dreams, And from afar I seemed to hear In sleep the mellow blackbird call Hollow and sweet and clear.

I prythee, Nurse, my casement open, Wildly the garden peals with singing, And hooting through the dewy pines The goblins all are winging.

O listen the droning of the bees, That in the roses take delight! And see a cloud stays in the blue Like an angel still and bright.

The gentle sky is spread like silk, And, Nurse, the moon doth languish there, As if it were a perfect jewel In the morning's soft-spun hair.

The greyness of the distant hills Is silvered in the lucid East, See, now the sheeny-plumèd cock Wags haughtily his crest.

'O come you out, O come you out, Lily, and lavender, and lime; The kingcup swings his golden bell, And plumpy cherries drum the time.

'O come you out, O come you out! Roses, and dew, and mignonette, The sun is in the steep blue sky, Sweetly the morning star is set.'

THE LAMPLIGHTER

When the light of day declineth, And a swift angel through the sky Kindleth God's tapers clear, With ashen staff the lamplighter Passeth along the darkling streets To light our earthly lamps;

Lest, prowling in the darkness, The thief should haunt with quiet tread, Or men on evil errands set; Or wayfarers be benighted; Or neighbours bent from house to house Should need a guiding torch.

He is like a needlewoman Who deftly on a sable hem Stitches in gleaming jewels; Or, haply, he is like a hero, Whose bright deeds on the long journey Are beacons on our way.

And when in the East cometh morning, And the broad splendour of the sun, Then, with the tune of little birds Ringing on high, the lamplighter Passeth by each quiet house, And putteth out the lamps.

CECIL

Ye little elves, who haunt sweet dells, Where flowers with the dew commune, I pray you hush the child, Cecil, With windlike song.

O little elves, so white she lieth, Each eyelid gentler than the flow'r Of the bramble, and her fleecy hair Like smoke of gold.

O little elves, her hands and feet The angels muse upon, and God Hath shut a glimpse of Paradise In each blue eye.

O little elves, her tiny body Like a white flake of snow it is, Drooping upon the pale green hood Of the chill snowdrop.

O little elves, with elderflower, And pimpernel, and the white hawthorn, Sprinkle the journey of her dreams: And, little elves,

Call to her magically sweet, Lest of her very tenderness She do forsake this rough brown earth And return to us no more.

I MET AT EVE

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep, His was a still and lovely face, He wandered through a valley steep Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender, About his brows a poppy-wreath Burned like dim coals, and everywhere The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore, His eyes shone faint in their own flame, Fair moths that gloomed his steps before Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways, A phantom house of misty walls, Whose golden flocks at evening graze, And witch the moon with muffled calls.

Upwelling from his shadowy springs Sweet waters shake a trembling sound, There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings, There hath his web the silkworm wound.

Dark in his pools clear visions lurk, And rosy, as with morning buds, Along his dales of broom and birk Dreams haunt his solitary woods.

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep, His was a still and lovely face, He wandered through a valley steep, Lovely in a lonely place.

LULLABY

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! The singing mouse sings plaintively, The sweet night-bird in the chesnut-tree-- They sing together, bird and mouse, In starlight, in darkness, lonely, sweet, The wild notes and the faint notes meet-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul!

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! Amid the lilies floats the moth, The mole along his galleries goeth In the dark earth; the summer moon Looks like a shepherd through the pane Seeking his feeble lamb again-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul!

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! Time comes to keep night-watch with thee Nodding with roses; and the sea Saith 'Peace! Peace!' amid his foam White as thy night-clothes; 'O be still!' The wind cries up the whisp'ring hill-- Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul!

ENVOY

There clung three roses to a stem, Did all their hues of summer don, But came a wind and troubled them, And all were gone.

I heard three bells in unison Clap out some transient heart's delight, Time and the hour brought silence on And the dark night.

Doth not Orion even set! O love, love, prove true alone, Till youthful hearts ev'n love forget, Then, child, begone!

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press