PART IV

PEASE-BLOSSOM AND MUSTARD-SEED

Shyly we surveyed our guides As through the gloomy woods we went In the light that the straggling moonbeams lent: We envied them their easy strides! Pease-blossom in his crimson cap And delicate suit of rose-leaf green, His crimson sash and his jewelled dagger, Strutted along with an elegant swagger Which showed that he didn’t care one rap For anything less than a Fairy Queen: His eyes were deep like the eyes of a poet, Although his crisp and curly hair Certainly didn’t seem to show it! While Mustard-seed was a devil-may-care Epigrammatic and pungent fellow Clad in a splendid suit of yellow, With emerald stars on his glittering breast And eyes that shone with a diamond light: They made you feel sure it would always be best To tell him the truth: he was not perhaps _quite_ So polite as Pease-blossom, but then who could be _Quite_ such a debonair fairy as he?

We never could tell you one-half that we heard And saw on that journey. For instance, a bird Ten times as big as an elephant stood By the side of a nest like a great thick wood: The clouds in glimmering wreaths were spread Behind its vast and shadowy head Which rolled at us trembling below. (Its eyes Were like great black moons in those pearl-pale skies.) And we feared he might take us, perhaps, for a worm.

But he ruffled his breast with the sound of a storm, And snuggled his head with a careless disdain Under his huge hunched wing again; And Mustard-seed said, as we stole thro’ the dark, There was nothing to fear: it was only a Lark!

And so he cheered the way along With many a neat little epigram, While dear Pease-blossom before him swam On a billow of lovely moonlit song, Telling us why they had left their home In Sherwood, and had hither come To dwell in this magical scented clime, This dim old Forest of sweet Wild Thyme.

“Men toil,” he said, “from morn till night With bleeding hands and blinded sight For gold, more gold! They have betrayed The trust that in their souls was laid; Their fairy birthright they have sold For little disks of mortal gold; And now they cannot even see The gold upon the greenwood tree, The wealth of coloured lights that pass In soft gradations through the grass, The riches of the love untold That wakes the day from grey to gold; And howsoe’er the moonlight weaves Magic webs among the leaves Englishmen care little now For elves beneath the hawthorn bough: Nor if Robin should return Dare they of an outlaw learn; For them the Smallest Flower is furled, Mute is the music of the world; And unbelief has driven away Beauty from the blossomed spray.”

Then Mustard-seed with diamond eyes Taught us to be laughter-wise, And he showed us how that Time Is much less powerful than a rhyme; And that Space is but a dream; “For look,” he said, with eyes agleam, “Now you are become so small You think the Thyme a forest tall; But underneath your feet you see A world of wilder mystery Where, if you were smaller yet, You would just as soon forget This forest, which you’d leave above As you have left the home you love! For, since the Thyme you used to know Seems a forest here below, What if you should sink again And find there stretched a mighty plain Between each grass-blade and the next? You’d think till you were quite perplexed! Especially if all the flowers That lit the sweet Thyme-forest bowers Were in that wild transcendent change Turned to Temples, great and strange, With many a pillared portal high And domes that swelled against the sky! How foolish, then, you will agree, Are those who think that all must see The world alike, or those who scorn Another who, perchance, was born Where--in a different dream from theirs-- What they call sins to him are prayers! We cannot judge; we cannot know; All things mingle; all things flow; There’s only one thing constant here-- Love--that untranscended sphere: Love, that while all ages run Holds the wheeling worlds in one; Love that, as your sages tell, Soars to heaven and sinks to hell.”

Even as he spoke, we seemed to grow Smaller, the Thyme trees seemed to go Farther away from us: new dreams Flashed out on us with mystic gleams Of mighty Temple-domes: deep awe Held us all breathless as we saw A carven portal glimmering out Between new flowers that put to rout Our other fancies: in sweet fear We tiptoed past, and seemed to hear A sound of singing from within That told our souls of Peterkin: Our thoughts of _him_ were still the same Howe’er the shadows went and came! So, on we wandered, hand in hand, And all the world was fairy-land.

* * * * *

And as we went we seemed to hear Surging up from distant dells A solemn music, soft and clear As if a field of lily-bells Were tolling all together, sweet But sad and low and keeping time To multitudinous marching feet With a slow funereal beat And a deep harmonious chime That told us by its dark refrain The reason fairies suffered pain.

SONG

Bear her along Keep ye your song Tender and sweet and low: Fairies must die! Ask ye not why Ye that have hurt her so. _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._

Men upon earth Bring us to birth Gently at even and morn! When as brother and brother They greet one another And smile--then a fairy is born! But at each cruel word Upon earth that is heard, Each deed of unkindness or hate, Some fairy must pass From the games in the grass And steal thro’ the terrible Gate. _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._

If ye knew, if ye knew All the wrong that ye do By the thought that ye harbour alone, How the face of some fairy Grows wistful and weary And the heart in her cold as a stone! Ah, she was born Blithe as the morn Under an April sky, Born of the greeting Of two lovers meeting! They parted, and so she must die! _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!_ _Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._

Cradled in blisses, Yea, born of your kisses, Oh, ye lovers that met by the moon, She would not have cried In the darkness and died If ye had not forgotten so soon!

Cruel mortals, they say, Live for ever and aye, And they pray in the dark on their knees! But the flowers that are fled And the loves that are dead, What heaven takes pity on these?

_Bear her along--singing your song--tender and sweet and low!_ _Fairies must die! Ask ye not why--ye that have hurt her so._

Passing away-- Flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year Shed its bloom on her bier And the dust of its dreams on our grief!

* * * * *

Then we came through a glittering crystal grot By a path like a pale moonbeam, And a broad blue bridge of Forget-me-not Over a shimmering stream, To where, through the deep blue dusk, a gleam Rose like the soul of the setting sun; A sunset breaking through the earth, A crimson sea of the poppies of dream, Deep as the sleep that gave them birth In the night where all earthly dreams are done.

And then, like a pearl-pale porch of the moon, Faint and sweet as a starlit shrine, Over the gloom Of the crimson bloom We saw the Gates of Ivory shine; And, lulled and lured by the lullaby tune Of the cradling airs that drowsily creep From blossom to blossom, and lazily croon Through the heart of the midnight’s mystic noon, We came to the Gates of the City of Sleep.

Faint and sweet as a lily’s repose On the broad black breast of a midnight lake, The City delighted the cradling night: Like a straggling palace of cloud it rose; The towers were crowned with a crystal light Like the starry crown of a white snowflake As they pierced in a wild white pinnacled crowd, Through the dusky wreaths of enchanted cloud That swirled all round like a witch’s hair.

And we heard, as the sound of a great sea sighing, The sigh of the sleepless world of care; And we saw strange shadowy figures flying Up to the Ivory Gates and beating With pale hands, long and famished and thin; Like blinded birds we saw them dash Against the cruelly gleaming wall: We heard them wearily moan and call With sharp starved lips for ever entreating The pale doorkeeper to let them in. And still, as they beat, again and again, We saw on the moon-pale lintels a splash Of crimson blood like a poppy-stain Or a wild red rose from the gardens of pain That sigh all night like a ghostly sea From the City of Sleep to Gethsemane.

And lo, as we neared that mighty crowd An old blind man came, crying aloud To greet us, as once the blind man cried In the Bible picture--you know we tried To paint that print, with its Eastern sun; But the reds and the yellows _would_ mix and run, And the blue of the sky made a horrible mess Right over the edge of the Lord’s white dress.

And the old blind man, just as though he had eyes, Came straight to meet us; and all the cries Of the crowd were hushed; and a strange sweet calm Stole through the air like a breath of the balm That was wafted abroad from the Forest of Thyme (For it rolled all round that curious clime With its magical clouds of perfumed trees.) And the blind man cried, “Our help is at hand, Oh, brothers, remember the old command, Remember the frankincense and myrrh, Make way, make way for those little ones there; Make way, make way, I have seen them afar Under a great white Eastern star; For I am the mad blind man who sees!” Then he whispered, softly--_Of such as these_; And through the hush of the cloven crowd We passed to the gates of the City, and there Our fairy heralds cried aloud-- _Open your Gates; don’t stand and stare; These are the Children for whom our King Made all the star-worlds dance in a ring!_

And lo, like a sorrow that melts from the heart In tears, the slow gates melted apart; And into the City we passed like a dream; And then, in one splendid marching stream The whole of that host came following through. We were only children, just like you; Children, ah, but we felt so grand As we led them--although we could understand Nothing at all of the wonderful song That rose all round as we marched along.

SONG

_You that have seen how the world and its glory_ _Change and grow old like the love of a friend;_ _You that have come to the end of the story,_ _You that were tired ere you came to the end;_ _You that are weary of laughter and sorrow,_ _Pain and pleasure, labour and sin,_ _Sick of the midnight and dreading the morrow,_ _Ah, come in; come in._

_You that are bearing the load of the ages;_ _You that have loved overmuch and too late;_ _You that confute all the saws of the sages;_ _You that served only because you must wait,_ _Knowing your work was a wasted endeavour;_ _You that have lost and yet triumphed therein,_ _Add loss to your losses and triumph for ever;_ _Ah, come in; come in._

And we knew as we went up that twisted street, With its violet shadows and pearl-pale walls, We were coming to Something strange and sweet, For the dim air echoed with elfin calls; And, far away, in the heart of the City, A murmur of laughter and revelry rose,-- A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity, And sweet as a swan-song’s golden close.

And then, once more, as we marched along, There surged all round us that wonderful song; And it swung to the tramp of our marching feet; But ah, it was tenderer now and so sweet That it made our eyes grow wet and blind, And the whole wide-world seem mother-kind, Folding us round with a gentle embrace, And pressing our souls to her soft sweet face.

SONG

_Dreams; dreams; ah, the memory blinding us, Blinding our eyes to the way that we go; Till the new sorrow come, once more reminding us Blindly of kind hearts, ours long ago: Mother-mine, whisper we, yours was the love for me! Still, though our paths lie lone and apart, Yours is the true love, shining above for me, Yours are the kind eyes, hurting my heart._

_Dreams; dreams; ah, how shall we sing of them,_ _Dreams that we loved with our head on her breast:_ _Dreams; dreams; and the cradle-sweet swing of them;_ _Ay, for her voice was the sound we loved best:_ _Can we remember at all or, forgetting it,_ _Can we recall for a moment the gleam_ _Of our childhood’s delight and the wonder begetting it,_ _Wonder awakened in dreams of a dream?_

And, once again, from the heart of the City A murmur of tenderer laughter rose, A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity, And sweet as a swan-song’s golden close; And it seemed as if some wonderful Fair Were charming the night of the City of Dreams, For, over the mystical din out there, The clouds were litten with flickering gleams, And a roseate light like the day’s first flush Quivered and beat on the towers above, And we heard through the curious crooning hush An elfin song that we used to love. _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ..._ And the soft wind blew it the other way; And all that we heard was--_Cow’s in the corn_; But we never heard anything half so gay!

And ever we seemed to be drawing nearer That mystical roseate smoke-wreathed glare, And the curious music grew louder and clearer, Till _Mustard-Seed_ said, “We are lucky, you see, We’ve arrived at a time of festivity!” And so to the end of the street we came, And turned a corner, and--there we were, In a place that glowed like the dawn of day, A crowded clamouring City square Like the cloudy heart of an opal, aflame With the lights of a great Dream-Fair: Thousands of children were gathered there, Thousands of old men, weary and grey, And the shouts of the showmen filled the air-- This way! This way! This way!

And _See-Saw_; _Margery Daw_; we heard a rollicking shout, As the swing-boats hurtled over our heads to the tune of the roundabout; And _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn_, we heard the showmen cry, And _Dickory Dock, I’m as good as a clock_, we heard the swings reply.

This way, this way to your Heart’s Desire; Come, cast your burdens down; And the pauper shall mount his throne in the skies, And the king be rid of his crown: And souls that were dead shall be fed with fire From the fount of their ancient pain, And your lost love come with the light in her eyes Back to your heart again.

Ah, here be sure she shall never prove Less kind than her eyes were bright; This way, this way to your old lost love, You shall kiss her lips to-night; This way for the smile of a dead man’s face And the grip of a brother’s hand, This way to your childhood’s heart of grace And your home in Fairy-land.

_Dickory Dock, I’m as good as a clock_, d’you hear my swivels chime? To and fro as I come and go, I keep eternal time. O, little Bo-peep, if you’ve lost your sheep and don’t know where to find ’em, Leave ’em alone and they’ll come home, and carry their tails behind ’em.

And _See-Saw_; _Margery Daw_; there came the chorussing shout, As the swing-boats answered the roaring tune of the rollicking roundabout; Dickory, dickory, dickory, dock, d’you hear my swivels chime? Swing; swing; you’re as good as a king if you keep eternal time.

Then we saw that the tunes of the world were one; And the metre that guided the rhythmic sun Was at one, like the ebb and the flow of the sea, With the tunes that we learned at our mother’s knee; The beat of the horse-hoofs that carried us down To see the fine Lady of Banbury Town; And so, by the rhymes that we knew, we could tell Without knowing the others--that all was well.

And then, our brains began to spin; For it seemed as if that mighty din Were no less than the cries of the poets and sages Of all the nations in all the ages; And, if they could only beat out the whole Of their music together, the guerdon and goal Of the world would be reached with one mighty shout, And the dark dread secret of Time be out; And nearer, nearer they seemed to climb, And madder and merrier rose the song, And the swings and the see-saws marked the time; For this was the maddest and merriest throng That ever was met on a holy-day To dance the dust of the world away; And madder and merrier, round and round The whirligigs whirled to the whirling sound, Till it seemed that the mad song burst its bars And mixed with the song of the whirling stars, The song that the rhythmic Time-Tides tell To seraphs in Heaven and devils in Hell; Ay; Heaven and Hell in accordant chime With the universal rhythm and rhyme Were nearing the secret of Space and Time; The song of that ultimate mystery Which only the mad blind men who see, Led by the laugh of a little child, Can utter; Ay, wilder and yet more wild It maddened, till now--full song--it was out! It roared from the starry roundabout--

_A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem,_ _A child was born in Bethlehem; ah, hear my fairy fable;_ _For I have seen the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,_ _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._ _The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,--_ _Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;_ _And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,_ _My childhood’s heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._

_A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem;_ _The wise men came to welcome him: a star stood o’er the gable;_ _And there they saw the Kings of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,_ _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._

And creeping through the music once again the fairy cry Came freezing o’er the snowy towers to lead us on to Peterkin: Once more the fairy bugles blew from lands beyond the sky, And we all groped out together, dazed and blind, we knew not why; Out through the City’s farther gates we went to look for Peterkin; Out, out into the dark Unknown, and heard the clamour die Far, far away behind us as we trotted on to Peterkin.

Then once more along the rare Forest-paths we groped our way: Here the glow-worm’s league-long glare Turned the Wild Thyme night to day: There we passed a sort of whale Sixty feet in length or more, But we knew it was a snail Even when we heard it snore. Often through the glamorous gloom Almost on the top of us We beheld a beetle loom Like a hippopotamus; Once or twice a spotted toad Like a mountain wobbled by With a rolling moon that glowed Through the skin-fringe of its eye.

Once a caterpillar bowed Down a leaf of Ygdrasil Like a sunset-coloured cloud Sleeping on a quiet hill: Once we came upon a moth Fast asleep with outspread wings, Like a mighty tissued cloth Woven for the feet of kings.

There above the woods in state Many a temple dome that glows Delicately like a great Rainbow-coloured bubble rose: Though they were but flowers on earth, Oh, we dared not enter in; For in that divine re-birth Less than awe were more than sin!

Yet their mystic anthems came Sweetly to our listening ears; And their burden was the same-- “No more sorrow, no more tears! Whither Peterkin has gone You, assuredly, shall go: When your wanderings are done, All he knows you, too, shall know!”

So we thought we’d onward roam Till earth’s Smallest Flower appeared, With a less tremendous dome Less divinely to be feared: Then, perchance, if we should dare Timidly to enter in, Might some kindly doorkeeper Give us news of Peterkin.

At last we saw a crimson porch Far away, like a dull red torch Burning in the purple gloom; And a great ocean of perfume Rolled round us as we drew anear, And then we strangely seemed to hear The shadow of a mighty psalm, A sound as if a golden sea Of music swung in utter calm Against the shores of Eternity; And then we saw the mighty dome Of some mysterious Temple tower On high; and knew that we had come, At last, to that sweet House of Grace Which wise men find in every place-- The Temple of the Smallest Flower.

And there--alas--our fairy friends Whispered, “Here our kingdom ends: You must enter in alone, But your souls will surely show Whither Peterkin is gone And the road that you must go: We, poor fairies, have no souls! Hark, the warning hare-bell tolls;” So “Good-bye, good-bye,” they said, “Dear little seekers-for-the-dead.” They vanished; ah, but as they went We heard their voices softly blent In some mysterious fairy song That seemed to make us wise and strong; For it was like the holy calm That fills the bosomed rose with balm, Or blessings that the twilight breathes Where the honeysuckle wreathes Between young lovers and the sky As on banks of flowers they lie; And with wings of rose and green Laughing fairies pass unseen, Singing their sweet lullaby,-- Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Ah, good night, with lullaby!

* * * * *

Only a flower? Those carven walls, Those cornices and coronals, The splendid crimson porch, the thin Strange sounds of singing from within-- Through the scented arch we stept, Pushed back the soft petallic door, And down the velvet aisles we crept; Was it a Flower--no more?

For one of the voices that we heard, A child’s voice, clear as the voice of a bird, Was it not?--nay, it could not be! And a woman’s voice that tenderly Answered him in fond refrain, And pierced our hearts with sweet sweet pain, As if dear Mary-mother hung Above some little child, and sung Between the waves of that golden sea The cradle-songs of Eternity; And, while in her deep smile he basked, Answered whatsoe’er he asked.

_What is there hid in the heart of a rose,_ _Mother-mine?_ _Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?_ _A man that died on a lonely hill_ _May tell you, perhaps, but none other will,_ _Little child._

_What does it take to make a rose,_ _Mother-mine?_ _The God that died to make it knows_ _It takes the world’s eternal wars,_ _It takes the moon and all the stars,_ _It takes the might of heaven and hell_ _And the everlasting Love as well,_ _Little child._

But there, in one great shrine apart Within the Temple’s holiest heart, We came upon a blinding light, Suddenly, and a burning throne Of pinnacled glory, wild and white; We could not see Who reigned thereon; For, all at once, as a wood-bird sings, The aisles were full of great white wings Row above mystic burning row; And through the splendour and the glow We saw four angels, great and sweet, With outspread wings and folded feet, Come gliding down from a heaven within The golden heart of Paradise; And in their hands, with laughing eyes, Lay little brother Peterkin.

And all around the Temple of the Smallest of the Flowers The glory of the angels made a star for little Peterkin; For all the Kings of Splendour and all the Heavenly Powers Were gathered there together in the fairy forest bowers With all their globed and radiant wings to make a star for Peterkin, The star that shone upon the East, a star that still is ours, Whene’er we hang our stockings up, a star of wings for Peterkin.

Then all, in one great flash, was gone-- A voice cried, “Hush, all’s well!” And we stood dreaming there alone, In darkness. Who can tell The mystic quiet that we felt, As if the woods in worship knelt, Far off we heard a bell Tolling strange human folk to prayer Through fields of sunset-coloured air.

And then a voice, “Why, here they are!” And--as it seemed--we woke; The sweet old skies, great star by star Upon our vision broke; Field over field of heavenly blue Rose o’er us; then a voice we knew Softly and gently spoke-- “See, they are sleeping by the side Of that dear little one--who died.”