Chapter 7

"Oh, why in the blue so misty, moon? Why so dull in the sky? Thou look'st like one that is ready to swoon Because her tear-well is dry.

"Enough, enough of longing and wail! Oh, bird, I pray thee, be glad! Sing to me once, dear nightingale, The old song, merry mad.

"Hold, hold with thy blossoming, colourless, cold, Apple-tree white as woe! Blossom yet once with the blossom of old, Let the roses shine through the snow!"

The moon and the blossoms they gloomily gleam, The bird will not be glad: The dead never speak when the mournful dream, They are too weak and sad.

Listened she listless till night grew late, Bound by a weary spell; Then clanked the latch of the garden-gate, And a wondrous thing befell:

Out burst the gladness, up dawned the love. In the song, in the waiting show; Grew silver the moon in the sky above. Blushed rosy the blossom below.

But the merry bird, nor the silvery moon, Nor the blossoms that flushed the night Had one poor thanks for the granted boon: The lady forgot them quite!

_LEGEND OF THE CORRIEVRECHAN_.

Prince Breacan of Denmark was lord of the strand And lord of the billowy sea; Lord of the sea and lord of the land, He might have let maidens be!

A maiden he met with locks of gold, Straying beside the sea: Maidens listened in days of old, And repented grievously.

Wiser he left her in evil wiles, Went sailing over the sea; Came to the lord of the Western Isles: Give me thy daughter, said he.

The lord of the Isles he laughed, and said: Only a king of the sea May think the Maid of the Isles to wed, And such, men call not thee!

Hold thine own three nights and days In yon whirlpool of the sea, Or turn thy prow and go thy ways And let the isle-maiden be.

Prince Breacan he turned his dragon prow To Denmark over the sea: Wise women, he said, now tell me how In yon whirlpool to anchor me.

Make a cable of hemp and a cable of wool And a cable of maidens' hair, And hie thee back to the roaring pool And anchor in safety there.

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, Will forge three anchors rare; The hemp thou shalt pull, thou shalt shear the wool, And the maidens will bring their hair.

Of the hair that is brown thou shalt twist one strand, Of the hair that is raven another; Of the golden hair thou shalt twine a band To bind the one to the other!

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, They forged three anchors rare; The hemp he did pull, and he shore the wool, And the maidens brought their hair.

He twisted the brown hair for one strand, The raven hair for another; He twined the golden hair in a band To bind the one to the other.

He took the cables of hemp and wool. He took the cable of hair, He hied him back to the roaring pool, He cast the three anchors there.

The whirlpool roared, and the day went by, And night came down on the sea; But or ever the morning broke the sky The hemp was broken in three.

The night it came down, the whirlpool it ran, The wind it fiercely blew; And or ever the second morning began The wool it parted in two.

The storm it roared all day the third, The whirlpool wallowed about, The night came down like a wild black bird, But the cable of hair held out.

Round and round with a giddy swing Went the sea-king through the dark; Round went the rope in the swivel-ring, Round reeled the straining bark.

Prince Breacan he stood on his dragon prow, A lantern in his hand: Blest be the maidens of Denmark now, By them shall Denmark stand!

He watched the rope through the tempest black A lantern in his hold: Out, out, alack! one strand will crack! It is the strand of gold!

The third morn clear and calm came out: No anchored ship was there! The golden strand in the cable stout Was not all of maidens' hair.

_THE DEAD HAND_.

The witch lady walked along the strand, Heard a roaring of the sea, On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand, Good thing for a witch lady!

Lightly she stepped across the rocks, Came where the dead man lay: Now pretty maid with your merry mocks, Now I shall have my way!

On a finger shone a sapphire blue In the heart of six rubies red: Come back to me, my promise true, Come back, my ring, she said.

She took the dead hand in the live, And at the ring drew she; The dead hand closed its fingers five, And it held the witch lady.

She swore the storm was not her deed, Dark spells she backward spoke; If the dead man heard he took no heed, But held like a cloven oak.

Deathly cold, crept up the tide, Sure of her, made no haste; Crept up to her knees, crept up each side, Crept up to her wicked waist.

Over the blue sea sailed the bride In her love's own sailing ship, And the witch she saw them across the tide As it rose to her lying lip.

Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead Are strong hasps they to hold! Fled the true dove with the kite's new love, And left the false kite with the old.

MINOR DITTIES.

_IN THE NIGHT_.

As to her child a mother calls, "Come to me, child; come near!" Calling, in silent intervals, The Master's voice I hear.

But does he call me verily? To have me does he care? Why should he seek my poverty, My selfishness so bare?

The dear voice makes his gladness brim, But not a child can know Why that large woman cares for him, Why she should love him so!

Lord, to thy call of me I bow, Obey like Abraham: Thou lov'st me because thou art thou, And I am what I am!

Doubt whispers, _Thou art such a blot He cannot love poor thee_: If what I am he loveth not, He loves what I shall be.

Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed, And turned away from ill, Is what his father made for good: He loves me, I say still!

_THE GIVER._

To give a thing and take again Is counted meanness among men; To take away what once is given Cannot then be the way of heaven!

But human hearts are crumbly stuff, And never, never love enough, Therefore God takes and, with a smile, Puts our best things away a while.

Thereon some weep, some rave, some scorn, Some wish they never had been born; Some humble grow at last and still, And then God gives them what they will.

_FALSE PROPHETS._

Would-be prophets tell us We shall not re-know Them that walked our fellows In the ways below!

Smoking, smouldering Tophets Steaming hopeless plaints! Dreary, mole-eyed prophets! Mean, skin-pledging saints!

Knowing not the Father What their prophecies! Grapes of such none gather, Only thorns and lies.

Loving thus the brother, How the Father tell? Go without each other To your heavenly hell!

_LIFE-WEARY_.

O Thou that walkest with nigh hopeless feet Past the one harbour, built for thee and thine. Doth no stray odour from its table greet, No truant beam from fire or candle shine?

At his wide door the host doth stand and call; At every lattice gracious forms invite; Thou seest but a dull-gray, solid wall In forest sullen with the things of night!

Thou cravest rest, and Rest for thee doth crave, The white sheet folded down, white robe apart.-- Shame, Faithless! No, I do not mean the grave! I mean Love's very house and hearth and heart.

_APPROACHES_.

When thou turn'st away from ill, Christ is this side of thy hill.

When thou turnest toward good, Christ is walking in thy wood.

When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!" Then the Lord is in thy garden.

When stern Duty wakes to watch, Then his hand is on the latch.

But when Hope thy song doth rouse, Then the Lord is in the house.

When to love is all thy wit, Christ doth at thy table sit.

When God's will is thy heart's pole, Then is Christ thy very soul.

_TRAVELLERS' SONG_.

Bands of dark and bands of light Lie athwart the homeward way; Now we cross a belt of Night, Now a strip of shining Day!

Now it is a month of June, Now December's shivering hour; Now rides high loved memories' Moon, Now the Dark is dense with power!

Summers, winters, days, and nights, Moons, and clouds, they come and go; Joys and sorrows, pains, delights, Hope and fear, and _yes_ and _no_.

All is well: come, girls and boys, Not a weary mile is vain! Hark--dim laughter's radiant noise! See the windows through the rain!

_LOVE IS STRENGTH_.

Love alone is great in might, Makes the heavy burden light, Smooths rough ways to weary feet, Makes the bitter morsel sweet: Love alone is strength!

Might that is not born of Love Is not Might born from above, Has its birthplace down below Where they neither reap nor sow: Love alone is strength!

Love is stronger than all force, Is its own eternal source; Might is always in decay, Love grows fresher every day: Love alone is strength!

Little ones, no ill can chance; Fear ye not, but sing and dance; Though the high-heaved heaven should fall God is plenty for us all: God is Love and Strength!

_COMING_.

When the snow is on the earth Birds and waters cease their mirth; When the sunlight is prevailing Even the night-winds drop their wailing.

On the earth when deep snows lie Still the sun is in the sky, And when most we miss his fire He is ever drawing nigher.

In the darkest winter day Thou, God, art not far away; When the nights grow colder, drearer, Father, thou art coming nearer!

For thee coming I would watch With my hand upon the latch-- Of the door, I mean, that faces Out upon the eternal spaces!

_SONG OF THE WAITING DEAD_.

With us there is no gray fearing, With us no aching for lack! For the morn it is always nearing, And the night is at our back. At times a song will fall dumb, A thought-bell burst in a sigh, But no one says, "He will not come!" She says, "He is almost nigh!"

The thing you call a sorrow Is our delight on its way: We know that the coming morrow Comes on the wheels of to-day! Our Past is a child asleep; Delay is ripening the kiss; The rising tear we will not weep Until it flow for bliss.

_OBEDIENCE_.

Trust him in the common light; Trust him in the awesome night;

Trust him when the earth doth quake: Trust him when thy heart doth ache;

Trust him when thy brain doth reel And thy friend turns on his heel;

Trust him when the way is rough, Cry not yet, _It is enough_!

But obey with true endeavour, Else the salt hath lost his savour.

_A SONG IN THE NIGHT_.

I would I were an angel strong, An angel of the sun, hasting along!

I would I were just come awake, A child outbursting from night's dusky brake!

Or lark whose inward, upward fate Mocks every wall that masks the heavenly gate!

Or hopeful cock whose clarion clear Shrills ten times ere a film of dawn appear!

Or but a glowworm: even then My light would come straight from the Light of Men!

I am a dead seed, dark and slow: Father of larks and children, make me grow.

_DE PROFUNDIS_.

When I am dead unto myself, and let, O Father, thee live on in me, Contented to do nought but pay my debt, And leave the house to thee,

Then shall I be thy ransomed--from the cark Of living, from the strain for breath, From tossing in my coffin strait and dark, At hourly strife with death!

Have mercy! in my coffin! and awake! A buried temple of the Lord! Grow, Temple, grow! Heart, from thy cerements break! Stream out, O living Sword!

When I am with thee as thou art with me, Life will be self-forgetting power; Love, ever conscious, buoyant, clear, and free, Will flame in darkest hour.

Where now I sit alone, unmoving, calm, With windows open to thy wind, Shall I not know thee in the radiant psalm Soaring from heart and mind?

The body of this death will melt away, And I shall know as I am known; Know thee my father, every hour and day, As thou know'st me thine own!

_BLIND SORROW_.

"My life is drear; walking I labour sore; The heart in me is heavy as a stone; And of my sorrows this the icy core: Life is so wide, and I am all alone!"

Thou did'st walk so, with heaven-born eyes down bent Upon the earth's gold-rosy, radiant clay, That thou had'st seen no star in all God's tent Had not thy tears made pools first on the way.

Ah, little knowest thou the tender care In a love-plenteous cloak around thee thrown! Full many a dim-seen, saving mountain-stair Toiling thou climb'st--but not one step alone!

Lift but thy languid head and see thy guide; Let thy steps go in his, nor choose thine own; Then soon wilt thou, thine eyes with wonder wide, Cry, _Now I know I never was alone_!

MOTES IN THE SUN.

_ANGELS_.

Came of old to houses lonely Men with wings, but did not show them: Angels come to our house, only, For their wings, they do not know them!

_THE FATHER'S WORSHIPPERS_.

'Tis we, not in thine arms, who weep and pray; The children in thy bosom laugh and play.

_A BIRTHDAY-WISH_.

Who know thee, love: thy life be such That, ere the year be o'er, Each one who loves thee now so much, Even God, may love thee more!

_TO ANY ONE_.

Go not forth to call Dame Sorrow From the dim fields of Tomorrow; Let her roam there all unheeded, She will come when she is needed; Then, when she draws near thy door, She will find God there before.

_WAITING_.

Lie, little cow, and chew thy cud, The farmer soon will shift thy tether; Chirp, linnet, on the frozen mud, Sun and song will come together; Wait, soul, for God, and thou shalt bud, He waits thy waiting with his weather.

_LOST BUT SAFE_.

Lost the little one roams about, Pathway or shelter none can find; Blinking stars are coming out; No one is moving but the wind; It is no use to cry or shout, All the world is still as a mouse; One thing only eases her mind: "Father knows I'm not in the house!"

_MUCH AND MORE_.

When thy heart, love-filled, grows graver, And eternal bliss looks nearer, Ask thy heart, nor show it favour, Is the gift or giver dearer?

Love, love on; love higher, deeper; Let love's ocean close above her; Only, love thou more love's keeper, More, the love-creating lover.

_HOPE AND PATIENCE_.

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled, A-dreaming of the world.

Round it, for castle-wall, a shell Is guarding it well.

_Hope_ is the bird with its dim sensations; The shell that keeps it alive is _Patience_.

_A BETTER THING_.

I took it for a bird of prey that soared High over ocean, battled mount, and plain; 'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored The invisibly obstructing window-pane!

Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye, Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve Thee, little angel of a lower sky!

_A PRISONER_.

The hinges are so rusty The door is fixed and fast; The windows are so dusty The sun looks in aghast: Knock out the glass, I pray, Or dash the door away, Or break the house down bodily, And let my soul go free!

_TO MY LORD AND MASTER_.

Imagination cannot rise above thee; Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee; My misery away from me I thrust it, For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.

_TO ONE UNSATISFIED_.

When, with all the loved around thee, Still thy heart says, "I am lonely," It is well; the truth hath found thee: Rest is with the Father only.

_TO MY GOD_.

Oh how oft I wake and find I have been forgetting thee! I am never from thy mind: Thou it is that wakest me.

_TRIOLET_.

Oh that men would praise the Lord For his goodness unto men! Forth he sends his saving word, --Oh that men would praise the Lord!-- And from shades of death abhorred Lifts them up to light again: Oh that men would praise the Lord For his goodness unto men!

_THE WORD OF GOD_.

Where the bud has never blown Who for scent is debtor? Where the spirit rests unknown Fatal is the letter.

In thee, Jesus, Godhead-stored, All things we inherit, For thou art the very Word And the very Spirit!

_EINE KLEINE PREDIGT_.

Graut Euch nicht, Ihr lieben Leute, Vor dem ungeheuren Morgen; Wenn es kommt, es ist das Heute, Und der liebe Gott zu sorgen.

_TO THE LIFE ETERNAL_.

Thou art my thought, my heart, my being's fortune, The search for thee my growth's first conscious date; For nought, for everything, I thee importune; Thou art my all, my origin and fate!

_HOPE DEFERRED_.

"Where is thy crown, O tree of Love? Flowers only bears thy root! Will never rain drop from above Divine enough for fruit?"

"I dwell in hope that gives good cheer, Twilight my darkest hour; For seest thou not that every year I break in better flower?"

_FORGIVENESS_.

God gives his child upon his slate a sum-- To find eternity in hours and years; With both sides covered, back the child doth come, His dim eyes swollen with shed and unshed tears; God smiles, wipes clean the upper side and nether, And says, "Now, dear, we'll do the sum together!"

_DEJECTION_.

O Father, I am in the dark, My soul is heavy-bowed: I send my prayer up like a lark, Up through my vapoury shroud, To find thee, And remind thee I am thy child, and thou my father, Though round me death itself should gather.

Lay thy loved hand upon my head, Let thy heart beat in mine; One thought from thee, when all seems dead, Will make the darkness shine About me And throughout me! And should again the dull night gather, I'll cry again, _Thou art my father_.

_APPEAL_.

If in my arms I bore my child, Would he cry out for fear Because the night was dark and wild And no one else was near?

Shall I then treat thee, Father, as My fatherhood would grieve? I will be hopeful, though, alas, I cannot quite believe!

I had no power, no wish to be: Thou madest me half blind! The darkness comes! I cling to thee! Be thou my perfect mind.

POEMS FOR CHILDREN

_LESSONS FOR A CHILD_.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the summer air But the spirit of love is moving there; Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree, Flutters with hundreds in harmony, But that spirit can part its tone from the rest, And read the life in its beetle's breast. When the sunshiny butterflies come and go, Like flowers paying visits to and fro, Not a single wave of their fanning wings Is unfelt by the spirit that feeleth all things. The long-mantled moths that sleep at noon And rove in the light of the gentler moon; And the myriad gnats that dance like a wall, Or a moving column that will not fall; And the dragon-flies that go burning by, Shot like a glance from a seeking eye-- There is one being that loves them all: Not a fly in a spider's web can fall But he cares for the spider, and cares for the fly; He cares for you, whether you laugh or cry, Cares whether your mother smile or sigh. How he cares for so many, I do not know, But it would be too strange if he did not so-- Dreadful and dreary for even a fly: So I cannot wait for the _how_ and _why_, But believe that all things are gathered and nursed In the love of him whose love went first And made this world--like a huge great nest For a hen to sit on with feathery breast.

II.

The bird on the leafy tree, The bird in the cloudy sky, The hart in the forest free, The stag on the mountain high, The fish inside the sea, The albatross asleep On the outside of the deep, The bee through the summer sunny Hunting for wells of honey-- What is the thought in the breast Of the little bird in its nest? What is the thought in the songs The lark in the sky prolongs? What mean the dolphin's rays, Winding his watery ways? What is the thought of the stag, Stately on yonder crag? What does the albatross think, Dreaming upon the brink Of the mountain billow, and then Dreaming down in its glen? What is the thought of the bee Fleeting so silently, Or flitting--with busy hum, But a careless go-and-come-- From flower-chalice to chalice, Like a prince from palace to palace? What makes them alive, so very-- Some of them, surely, merry. And others so stately calm They might be singing a psalm?

I cannot tell what they think--- Only know they eat and drink, And on all that lies about With a quiet heart look out, Each after its kind, stately or coy, Solemn like man, gamesome like boy, Glad with its own mysterious joy.

And God, who knows their thoughts and ways Though his the creatures do not know, From his full heart fills each of theirs: Into them all his breath doth go; Good and better with them he shares; Content with their bliss while they have no prayers, He takes their joy for praise.

If thou wouldst be like him, little one, go And be kind with a kindness undefiled; Who gives for the pleasure of thanks, my child, God's gladness cannot know.

III.

Root met root in the spongy ground, Searching each for food: Each turned aside, and away it wound. And each got something good.

Sound met sound in the wavy air-- That made a little to-do! They jostled not long, but were quick and fair; Each found its path and flew.

Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell; They joined and sank below: In gathered thousands they rose a well, With a singing overflow.

Wind met wind in a garden green, They began to push and fret: A tearing whirlwind arose between: There love lies bleeding yet.

_WHAT MAKES SUMMER?_

Winter froze both brook and well; Fast and fast the snowflakes fell; Children gathered round the hearth Made a summer of their mirth; When a boy, so lately come That his life was yet one sum Of delights--of aimless rambles. Romps and dreams and games and gambols, Thought aloud: "I wish I knew What makes summer--that I do!" Father heard, and it did show him How to write a little poem.

What makes summer, little one, Do you ask? It is the sun. Want of heat is all the harm, Summer is but winter warm. 'Tis the sun--yes, that one there, Dim and gray, low in the air! Now he looks at us askance, But will lift his countenance Higher up, and look down straighter. Rise much earlier, set much later, Till we sing out, "Hail, Well-comer, Thou hast brought our own old Summer!"

When the sun thus rises early And keeps shining all day rarely, Up he draws the larks to meet him, Earth's bird-angels, wild to greet him; Up he draws the clouds, and pours Down again their shining showers; Out he draws the grass and clover, Daisies, buttercups all over; Out he wiles all flowers to stare At their father in the air-- He all light, they how much duller, Yet son-suns of every colour! Then he draws their odours out, Sends them on the winds about. Next he draws out flying things-- Out of eggs, fast-flapping wings; Out of lumps like frozen snails, Butterflies with splendid sails; Draws the blossoms from the trees, From their hives the buzzy bees, Golden things from muddy cracks-- Beetles with their burnished backs; Laughter draws he from the river Gleaming back to the gleam-giver; Light he sends to every nook That no creature be forsook; Draws from gloom and pain and sadness, Hope and blessing, peace and gladness, Making man's heart sing and shine With his brilliancy divine: Summer, thus it is he makes it, And the little child he takes it.

Day's work done, adown the west Lingering he goes to rest; Like a child, who, blissful yet, Is unwilling to forget, And, though sleepy, heels and head, Thinks he cannot go to bed. Even when down behind the hill Back his bright look shineth still, Whose keen glory with the night Makes the lovely gray twilight-- Drawing out the downy owl, With his musical bird-howl; Drawing out the leathery bats-- Mice they are, turned airy cats-- Noiseless, sly, and slippery things Swimming through the air on wings; Drawing out the feathery moth, Lazy, drowsy, very loath; Drawing children to the door For one goodnight-frolic more; Drawing from the glow-worms' tails Glimmers green in grassy dales; Making ocean's phosphor-flashes Glow as if they were sun-ashes.