PART V

THE HAPPY ENDING

We told dear father all our tale That night before we went to bed, And at the end his face grew pale, And he bent over us and said (Was it not strange?) he, too, was there, A weary, weary watch to keep Before the gates of the City of Sleep; But, ere we came, he did not dare Even to dream of entering in, Or even to hope for Peterkin. He was the poor blind man, he said, And we--how low he bent his head! Then he called mother near; and low He whispered to us--“Prompt me now; For I forget that song we heard, But you remember every word.” Then memory came like a breaking morn, And we breathed it to him--_A child was born!_ And there he drew us to his breast And softly murmured all the rest.--

_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._

Then he looked up and mother knelt Beside us, oh, her eyes were bright; Her arms were like a lovely belt All round us as we said Good-night To father: _he_ was crying now, But they were happy tears, somehow; For there we saw dear mother lay Her cheek against his cheek and say-- Hush, let me kiss those tears away.

_DEDICATION_

_What can a wanderer bring_ _To little ones loved like you?_ _You have songs of your own to sing_ _That are far more steadfast and true,_ _Crumbs of pity for birds_ _That flit o’er your sun-swept lawn,_ _Songs that are dearer than all our words_ _With a love that is clear as the dawn._

_What should a dreamer devise,_ _In the depths of his wayward will,_ _To deepen the gleam of your eyes_ _Who can dance with the Sun-child still?_ _Yet you glanced on his lonely way,_ _You cheered him in dream and deed,_ _And his heart is o’erflowing, o’erflowing to-day_ _With a love that--you never will need._

_What can a pilgrim teach_ _To dwellers in fairy-land?_ _Truth that excels all speech_ _You murmur and understand!_ _All he can sing you he brings;_ _But--one thing more if he may_, _One thing more that the King of Kings_ _Will take from the child on the way._

_Yet how can a child of the night_ _Brighten the light of the sun?_ _How can he add a delight_ _To the dances that never are done?_ _Ah, what if he struggles to turn_ _Once more to the sweet old skies_ _With praise and praise, from the fetters that burn,_ _To the God that brightened your eyes?_

_Yes; he is weak, he will fail,_ _Yet, what if, in sorrows apart,_ _One thing, one should avail,_ _The cry of a grateful heart;_ _It has wings: they return through the night_ _To a sky where the light lives yet,_ _To the clouds that kneel on his mountain-height_ _And the path that his feet forget._

_What if he struggles and still_ _Fails and struggles again?_ _What if his broken will_ _Whispers the struggle is vain?_ _Once at least he has risen_ _Because he remembered your eyes;_ _Once they have brought to his earthly prison_ _The passion of Paradise._

_Kind little eyes that I love,_ _Eyes forgetful of mine,_ _In a dream I am bending above_ _Your sleep, and you open and shine;_ _And I know as my own grow blind_ _With a lonely prayer for your sake,_ _He will hear--even me--little eyes that were kind,_ _God bless you, asleep or awake._

* * * * *

BY ALFRED NOYES

Poems

With an Introduction by HAMILTON MABIE

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“Imagination, the capacity to perceive vividly and feel sincerely, and the gift of fit and beautiful expression in verse-form--if these may be taken as the equipment of a poet, nearly all of this volume is poetry. And if to the sum of these be added the indescribable increment of charm which comes occasionally to the work of some poet, quite unearned by any of these catalogued qualities of his, you have a fair measure of Mr. Noyes at his best.... Two considerations render Mr. Noyes interesting above most poets: the wonderful degree in which the personal charm illumines what he has already written, and the surprises which one feels may be in store in his future work. His feelings have already so much variety and so much apparent sincerity that it is impossible to tell in what direction his genius will develop. In whatever style he writes,--the mystical, the historical-dramatic, the impassioned description of natural beauty, the ballad, the love lyric,--he has the peculiarity of seeming in each style to have found the truest expression of himself.”--_Louisville Courier-Journal._

_PUBLISHED BY_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Sixty-four and Sixty-six Fifth Avenue, New York

A History of English Poetry

BY W. J. COURTHOPE, C.B., D.Litt., LL.D.

Late Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford

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