Chapter 2

The lads are gaming with the girls, and laughing by the fire. But Mollie in the cold, dark night, has found her heart's desire.

ON KINGSTON BRIDGE: ELLEN M.H. CORTISSOZ

(On All Souls' Night the dead walk on Kingston Bridge.--_Old Legend._)

On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone Through hurrying mists in shrouded glow; The boding night-wind made its moan, The mighty river crept below. 'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge.

Two met who had not met for years; Once was their hate too deep for fears: One drew his rapier as he came, Upleapt his anger like a flame. With clash of mail he faced his foe, And bade him stand and meet him so. He felt a graveyard wind go by Cold, cold as was his enemy. A stony horror held him fast. The Dead looked with a ghastly stare, And sighed "I know thee not," and passed Like to the mist, and left him there On Kingston Bridge.

'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge.

Two met who had not met for years: With grief that was too deep for tears They parted last. He clasped her hand, and in her eyes He sought Love's rapturous surprise. "Oh, Sweet!" he cried, "hast thou come back To say thou lov'st thy lover still?" --Into the starlight, pale and cold, She gazed afar--her hand was chill: "Dost thou remember how we kept Our ardent vigils?--how we kissed?-- Take thou these kisses as of old!" An icy wind about him swept; "I know thee not," she sighed, and passed Into the dim and shrouding mist On Kingston Bridge.

'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge.

ALL SOULS' NIGHT: LOUISA HUMPHREYS

Canice the priest went out on the Night of Souls; "Stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board "Stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes, And the night is dark and the way is lone abroad; Stay within because it is lone, at least." "Nay, it will not be lone," said Canice the priest.

Dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky; A scent of earth in the night, of opened mould; A listening pause in the night--and a breath passed by-- And its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold Canice went on to the waste where no men be; "Nay, I will not be lone to-night," said he.

Shades that flit, besides the shades of the night; Rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind; Steps of feet that pace with his on the right, Steps that pace on the left, and steps behind. "Nay, no fear that I shall be lone, at least! Lo, there are throngs abroad," said Canice the priest.

Deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem; Sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek; Canice the priest swings on, atune with them, Hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak; Hears the word they utter, and answers "Yea! Yea, poor souls, for I heed; I pray, I pray."

Lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done; Hark, a bird that trills a song of the light. Canice hies him home by the shine of the sun. What to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night? What of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled? "Maria, ora pro illis!" Canice said.

"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"

MARY SHEPHERDESS: MARJORIE L.C. PICKTHALL

When the heron's in the high wood and the last long furrow's sown With the herded cloud before her and her sea-sweet raiment blown Comes Mary, Mary Shepherdess, a-seeking for her own.

Saint James he calls the righteous folk, Saint John he calls the kind, Saint Peter seeks the valiant men all to loose or bind, But Mary seeks the little souls that are so hard to find.

All the little sighing souls born of dust's despair, They who fed on bitter bread when the world was bare, Frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair.

All about the windy down, housing in the ling, Underneath the alder-bough linnet-light they cling, Frighted of the shining house where the martyrs sing.

Crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane, Grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the lane, Mary, Mary Shepherdess gathers them again.

And O the wandering women know, in workhouse and in shed, They dream on Mary Shepherdess with doves about her head, And pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow comforted.

Saying: there's my little lass, faring fine and free, There's the little lad I laid by the holly tree, Dreaming: There's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee.

When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam, Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home.

If I had a little maid to turn my tears away, If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm gray, All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray.

THE LITTLE GHOST: KATHERINE TYNAN

The stars began to peep Gone was the bitter day, She heard the milky ewes Bleat to their lambs astray. Her heart cried for her lamb Lapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy children At play with the Lamb of God.

She heard the calling ewes And the lambs answer alas! She heard her heart's blood drip in the night, As the ewes' milk on the grass. Her tears that burnt like fire So bitter and slow ran down She could not think on the new-washed children Playing by Mary's gown.

Oh, who is this comes in Over her threshold stone? And why is the old dog wild with joy Who all day long made moan? This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry children In the nurseries of Heaven.

He was all clad in white Without a speck or stain; His curls had a ring of light, That rose and fell again. "Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost children Gathered at Mary's knees."

Oh, lightly sprang she up Nor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghost Through the dark night she ran. She is gone swift as a fawn, As a bird homes to its nest, She has seen them lie, the sleepy children, 'Twixt Mary's arm and breast.

At morning she came back; Her eyes were strange to see. She will not fear the long journey, However long it be. As she goes in and out She sings unto hersel'; For she has seen the mother's children And knows that it is well.

TWO BROTHERS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The dead son's mother sat and wept And her live son plucked at her gown, "Oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!" But she beat the small hands down.

The little live son he clung to her knee-- And frightened his eyes and dim-- "Have ye never, my mother, a word for me?" But she turned her face from him,

Saying, "Oh and alack, mine own dead son, Could I know but the path aright, How fast and how fast my feet would run Through the way o' Death to-night!"

Saying, "Oh and alack, for thy empty place And the ache in my heart to hide!" The little live son has touched her face, But she thrust his hands aside.

The mother hath laid her down and wept In the midnight's chill and gloom; In the hour ere dawn while the mother slept The ghost came in the room.

And the little live son hath called his name Or ever he passed the door, "Oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came, For our mother's grief is sore!

"Oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee As a rain that beats all day, But me she pushes from off her knee And turneth her eyes away."

And the little dead son he spake again, "My brother, the dead have grace Though they lay them low from the sight of men With a white cloth on their face.

"Oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love, Though lonely and low they lie, By my mother's love do I speak and move And may not wholly die."

The little live son he sighed apart, "Oh, brother, ye live," quoth he, "In my mother's grief and my mother's heart And my mother's memory.

"And vain for thee is my mother's cry," The little live son hath said, "For ye are loved and ye may not die-- It is only I who am dead!"

THE LITTLE DEAD CHILD: JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON

When all but her were sleeping fast, And the night was nearly fled, The little dead child came up the stair And stood by his mother's bed.

"Ah, God!" she cried, "the nights are three, And yet I have not slept!" The little dead child he sat him down, And sank his head and wept.

"And is it thou, my little dead child, Come in from out the storm? Ah, lie thou back against my heart, And I will keep thee warm!"

_That is long ago, mother,_ _Long and long ago!_ _Shall I grow warm who lay three nights_ _Beneath the winter snow?_

* * * * *

"Hast thou not heard the old nurse weep? She sings to us no more; And thy brothers leave the broken toys And whisper in the door."

_That is far away, mother,_ _Far and far away!_ _Above my head the stone is white._ _My hands forget to play._

* * * * *

"What wilt thou then, my little dead child, Since here thou may'st not lie? Ah, me! that snow should be thy sheet, And winds thy lullaby!"

_Down within my grave, mother,_ _I heard, I know not how,_ _"Go up to God, thou little child,_ _Go up and meet him now!"_

_That is far to fare, mother,_ _Far and far to fare!_ _I come for thee to carry me_ _The way from here to there._

"Oh, hold thy peace, my little dead child. My heart will break in me! Thy way to God thou must go alone, I may not carry thee!"

* * * * *

The cock crew out the early dawn Ere she could stay her moan; She heard the cry of a little child, Upon his way alone.

THE CHILD ALONE: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

They say the night has fallen chill-- But I know naught of mist or rain, Only of two small hands that still Beat on the darkness all in vain.

They say the wind blows high and wild Down the long valleys to the sea; But I can only hear the child, Who weeps in darkness, wanting me.

Beyond the footfalls in the street, Above the voices of the bay, I hear the sound of little feet, Two little stumbling feet astray.

Oh, loud the autumn wind makes moan, The desolate wind about my door, And a little child goes all alone Who never was alone before.

THE CHILD: THEODOSIA GARRISON

I heard her crying in the night,-- So long, so long I lay awake, Watching the moonlight ebb and break Against the sill like waves of light.

I tried to close my eyes nor heed And lie quite still--but oh, again The little voice of fright and pain Sobbed in the darkness of her need.

Strange shadows led me down the stair; Creaked as I went the hollow floor; I drew the bolt and flung the door Wide, wide, and softly called her there.

_Ah me, as happy mothers call_ _Through the tender twilights to the gay,_ _Glad truant making holiday_ _Too long before the evenfall._

The garden odors drifted through, The scent of earth and box and rose, And then, as silently as those, A little wistful child I knew.

So small, so frightened and so cold, Ah, close, so close I gathered her Within my arms, she might not stir, And crooned and kissed her in their hold.

_As might a happy mother, when,_ _Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,_ _One runs to her for comforting,_ _And smiles within her arms again._

All night upon my heart she lay, All night I held her warm and close, Until the morning wind arose And called across the world for day.

The garden odors drifted through The open door; as still as they She passed into the awful day, A little, wistful child I knew.

Think you for this God's smile may dim (His are so many, many dead) Seeing that I but comforted A child--and sent her back to Him!

SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY: ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Three days she wandered forth from me, Then sought me as of old. "I did not know how dark 'twould be," She sobbed, "nor yet how cold.

"And it is chill for me to fare Who have not long been dead. If thou wouldst give away thy cloak I might go comforted."

I would have soothed her on my breast But that she needs must go. The dead must journey without rest Whether they will or no.

But I had kept for love of her The cloak she wore, the shoes, And every day I touched the things She had been wont to use.

All night the dead must hurry on, They may not ever sleep. And so I gave away her cloak That I was fain to keep.

The second time she sought me out Her eyes were full of need. "If thou wouldst give away my shoes Perchance I would not bleed."

I cried to her aloud, "My child, They are all I have to keep, To lay my hand upon and touch At night before I sleep.

"The earth shall keep the body I bore, And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose. Let be--I ask a little thing, That I should keep thy shoes.

"But I will give away my own. Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see? Let Thou her road to Paradise This way be eased by me."

All night alone by brier and stone I ran that road unshod, So I might know instead of her The pains that lead to God.

When next she came for a brief space She tarried at my side, So happy was she in that place, So glad that she had died.

"The last night that I roamed," she said, "Some one had gone before. I followed where those feet had led, And found it rough no more.

"And then I came to a good place, So kind, so dear are they I may not come again," and so She smiled and went away.

Dear Christ, Who died to save us all, Who trod the ways so cold and wild, The love of Mary in thy heart Did let me ease my child.

She may not leave the place of bliss, I may not touch her hands and hair, But every night I touch and kiss The shoes she used to wear.

THE OPEN DOOR: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks, When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks.

While bare black night through empty casements staring Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead, Fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring-- Hush and listen--listen--but never turn your head.

Leave the door upon the latch--she could never reach it-- You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day, Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it, Weeping as once in the long years past away.

Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you-- Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay: Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you? There all her toys were kept, there she used to play.

Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays: Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter, Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways.

Falls as it once fell on a tide past over, Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone; And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone.

Far or near no one knew--none would now remember Where she wandered no one knew--none will ever know; Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.

MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS: MARGUERITE ELIZABETH EASTER

They are my laddie's hounds That rin the wood at brak o' day. Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds At brak o' day?

They cleek aff thegither, And then fa' back, wi' room atween For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen The baith cleek aff thegither Wi' ane atween!

And when toward the pines Up yonder lane they loup alang I see ae laddie brent and strang, I see ae laddie loup alang Toward the pines.

I follow them in mind Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,-- They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae An' skir the field; I follow them, I ken the way.

They daddle at the creek, Whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs, An' drink o' springs that spait the creek Maist to the logs.

He's but a bairn, atho' He hunts the mountain's lonely bree, His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee He ties; he's but a bairn, atho' He hunts the bree.

Fu' length they a' stretch out Upon ae bink that green trees hap In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out Whaur green trees hap.

And noo he fades awa' Frae 'tween the twa--into the blue. My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true That he has gane for aye awa Into the blue!

They are my laddie's hounds That mak the hill at fa' o' day Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say _Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_ _Till fa' o day?_

THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN

The boys who used to come and go In the grey kindly house are flown. They have taken the way the young feet know; Not alone, not alone! Thronged is the road the young feet go.

Yet in the quiet evening hour What comes, oh, lighter than a bird? Touches her cheek, soft as a flower. What moved, what stirred? What was the joyous whisper heard?

What flitted in the corridor Like a boy's shape so dear and slight? What was the laughter ran before? Delicate, light, Like harps the wind plays out of sight.

The boys who used to go and come In the grey house are come again; Of the grey house and firelit room They are fain, they are fain: They have come home from the night and rain.

SHADOWY HEROES

BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS

In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor, I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.

I followed three shadows against the moon, That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,

Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars, That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,

But they sang no longer of Agincourt, When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear, I but brought thee home to break thee here."

And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home, To which our tired hearts are come!"

And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr, To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."

Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand, His good sword bright in his right hand,

And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound, To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.

The moon did shake in the south to see, The dead man stand with his soldiery.

But the brighter his sword, the grave before, Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.

Therein the thousand, before their Lord, Marched at the summons of his bright sword.

Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain, And I stood alone by the grave again.

But brightly his sword still before me shone, Across the dark moor as I passed alone.

And still it shines, a silver flame, Across the dark night of the Cymraec shame.

THE LOOKING-GLASS: RUDYARD KIPLING

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old, Her petticoat was of satin, and her stomacher was gold. Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass, Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair. There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair, Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, But I will stand beside you till you face the looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was."

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore, There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door, Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass, As hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!"

The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head. She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:-- "Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been, Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!" And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was) And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

DRAKE'S DRUM: HENRY NEWBOLT

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin' He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' all the time of Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!

THE GREY GHOST: FRANCIS CARLIN

From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey, Through misty Connemara in the West; And those who seek the cause of his unrest, Need go but to the Death-dumb in the clay, To those that fell defiant in the fray, Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest Left Hell and Connaught open on their way. As I have heard so may the stranger hear! That he who drove the natives from the lawn, Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen Until the Irish gather with a cheer In Dublin of the Parliaments at dawn. God rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen!

BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE: FRANCIS CARLIN

On Douglas Bridge I met a man Who lived adjacent to Straban, Before the English hung him high For riding with O'Hanlon.

The eyes of him were just as fresh As when they burned within the flesh; And his boot-legs widely walked apart From riding with O'Hanlon.

"God save you, Sir!" I said with fear, "You seem to be a stranger here." "Not I," said he, "nor any man Who rides with Count O'Hanlon."

"I know each glenn from North Tyrone To Monaghan, and I've been known By every clan and parish, since I rode with Count O'Hanlon."

"Before that time," said he with pride, "My fathers rode where now they ride As Rapperees, before the time Of Trouble and O'Hanlon."

"Good night to you, and God be with The Tellers of the tale and myth, For they are of the spirit-stuff That rides with Count O'Hanlon."

"Good night to you," said I, "and God Be with the chargers, fairy-shod, That bear the Ulster's heroes forth To ride with Count O'Hanlon."

On Douglas Bridge we parted, but The Gap o' Dreams is never shut, To one whose saddled soul to-night Rides out with Count O'Hanlon.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND: PHILIP FRENEAU

In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;-- The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.