Chapter 1

Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

THE RIDE TO THE LADY

And Other Poems

BY

HELEN GRAY CONE

1891

CONTENTS

The Ride to the Lady

The First Guest

Silence

Arraignment

The Going Out of the Tide

King Raedwald

Ivo of Chartres

Madonna Pia

Two Moods of Failure

The Story of the "Orient"

A Resurrection

The Glorious Company

The Trumpeter

Comrades

The House of Hate

The Arrowmaker

A Nest in a Lyre

Thisbe

The Spring Beauties

Kinship

Compensation

When Willows Green

At the Parting of the Ways

The Fair Gray Lady

The Encounter.

Summer Hours

Love Unsung

The Wish for a Chaplet

Sonnets: The Torch Race To Sleep Sister Snow The Contrast A Mystery Triumph In Winter, with the Book we had in Spring Sere Wisdom Isolation The Lost Dryad The Gifts of the Oak The Strayed Singer The Immortal Word

THE RIDE TO THE LADY

"Now since mine even is come at last,-- For I have been the sport of steel, And hot life ebbeth from me fast, And I in saddle roll and reel,-- Come bind me, bind me on my steed! Of fingering leech I have no need!" The chaplain clasped his mailed knee. "Nor need I more thy whine and thee! No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!" They bound him strong with leathern thong, For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. (Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine! Only of thee, of thee, my need! Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.

Far behind had the fight's din died; The shuddering stars in the welkin wide Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. The beating hearts of the stars aloof kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof, "What is the throb that thrills so sweet? Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!" But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,-- But the viewless rider rode to win, Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, As a garment worn of a wizard grim. He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.

She heard no sound before her gate, Though very quiet was her bower. All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;

But the lady was not there, On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal. Now God's great grace assoil the soul That went out in the wood!

THE FIRST GUEST

When the house is finished, Death enters. _Eastern Proverb_

Life's House being ready all, Each chamber fair and dumb, Ere life, the Lord, is come With pomp into his hall,-- Ere Toil has trod the floors, Ere Love has lit the fires, Or young great-eyed Desires Have, timid, tried the doors; Or from east-window leaned One Hope, to greet the sun, Or one gray Sorrow screened Her sight against the west,-- Then enters the first guest, The House of life being done.

He waits there in the shade. I deem he is Life's twin, For whom the house was made. Whatever his true name, Be sure, to enter in He has both key and claim.

The daybeams, free of fear, Creep drowsy toward his feet; His heart were heard to beat, Were any there to hear; Ah, not for ends malign, Like wild thing crouched in lair, Or watcher of a snare, But with a friend's design He lurks in shadow there!

He goes not to the gates To welcome any other, Nay, not Lord Life, his brother; But still his hour awaits Each several guest to find Alone, yea, quite alone; Pacing with pensive mind The cloister's echoing stone, Or singing, unaware, At the turning of the stair Tis truth, though we forget, In Life's House enters none Who shall that seeker shun, Who shall not so be met. "Is this mine hour?" each saith. "So be it, gentle Death!" Each has his way to end, Encountering this friend. Griefs die to memories mild; Hope turns a weanèd child; Love shines a spirit white, With eyes of deepened light. When many a guest has passed, Some day 'tis Life's at last To front the face of Death. Then, casements closed, men say: "Lord Life is gone away; He went, we trust and pray, To God, who gave him breath." Beginning, End, He is: Are not these sons both His? Lo, these with Him are one! To phrase it so were best: God's self is that first Guest, The House of Life being done!

SILENCE

Why should I sing of earth or heaven? not rather rest, Powerless to speak of that which hath my soul possessed,-- For full possession dumb? Yea, Silence, that were best.

And though for what it failed to sound I brake the string, And dashed the sweet lute down, a too much fingered thing, And found a wild new voice,--oh, still, why should I sing?

An earth-song could I make, strange as the breath of earth, Filled with the great calm joy of life and death and birth? Yet, were it less than this, the song were little worth.

For this the fields caress; brown clods tell each to each; Sad-colored leaves have sense whereto I cannot reach; Spiced everlasting-flowers outstrip my range of speech.

A heaven-song could I make, all fire that yet was peace, And tenderness not lost, though glory did increase? But were it less than this, 't were well the song should cease.

For this the still west saith, with plumy flames bestrewn; Heaven's body sapphire-clear, at stirless height of noon; The cloud where lightnings pulse, beside the untroubled moon.

I will not sing of earth or heaven, but rather rest, Rapt by the face of heaven, and hold on earth's warm breast. Hushed lips, a beating heart, yea, Silence, that were best.

ARRAIGNMENT

"Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have smitten us," cry The sad, great souls, as they go out hence into dark, "Not ye we accuse, though for you was our passion borne; And ye we reproach not, who silently passed us by. We forgive blind eyes and the ears that would not hark, The careless and causeless hate and the shallow scorn.

"But ye, who have seemed to know us, have seen and heard; Who have set us at feasts and have crowned with the costly rose; Who have spread us the purple of praises beneath our feet; Yet guessed not the word that we spake was a living word, Applauding the sound,--we account you as worse than foes! We sobbed you our message; ye said, 'It is song, and sweet!'"

THE GOING OUT OF THE TIDE

The eastern heaven was all faint amethyst, Whereon the moon hung dreaming in the mist; To north yet drifted one long delicate plume Of roseate cloud; like snow the ocean-spume.

Now when the first foreboding swiftly ran Through the loud-glorying sea that it began To lose its late gained lordship of the land, Uprose the billow like an angered man, And flung its prone strength far along the sand; Almost, almost to the old bound, the dark And taunting triumph-mark.

But no, no, no! and slow, and slow, and slow, Like a heart losing hold, this wave must go,-- Must go, must go,--dragged heavily back, back, Beneath the next wave plunging on its track, Charging, with thunderous and defiant shout, To fore-determined rout.

Again, again the unexhausted main Renews fierce effort, drawing force unguessed From awful deeps of its mysterious breast: Like arms of passionate protest, tossed in vain, The spray upflings above the billow's crest. Again the appulse, again the backward strain-- Till ocean must have rest.

With one abandoned movement, swift and wild,-- As though bowed head and outstretched arms it laid On the earth's lap, soft sobbing,--hushed and stayed, The great sea quiets, like a soothed child. Ha! what sharp memory clove the calm, and drave This last fleet furious wave?

On, on, endures the struggle into night, Ancient as Time, yet fresh as the fresh hour; As oft repeated since the birth of light As the strong agony and mortal fight Of human souls, blind-reaching, with the Power Aloof, unmoved, impossible to cross, Whose law is seeming loss.

Low-sunken from the longed-for triumph-mark; The spent sea sighs as one that grieves in sleep. The unveiled moon along the rippling plain Casts many a keen, cold, shifting silvery spark, Wild as the pulses of strange joy, that leap Even in the quick of pain.

And she compelling, she that stands for law,-- As law for Will eternal,--perfect, clear, And uncompassionate shines: to her appear Vast sequences close-linked without a flaw. All past despairs of ocean unforgot, All raptures past, serene her light she gives, The moon too high for pity, since she lives Aware that loss is not.

KING RAEDWALD

Will you hear now the speech of King Raedwald,--heathen Raedwald, the simple yet wise? He, the ruler of North-folk and South-folk, a man open-browed as the skies, Held the eyes of the eager Italians with his blue, bold, Englishman's eyes.

In his hall, on his throne, so he sat, with the light of the fire on him full: Colored bright as the ring of red gold on his hand, fit to buffet a bull, Was the mane that grew down on his neck, was the beard he would pondering pull.

To the priests, to the eager Italians, thus fearless less he poured his free speech; "O my honey-tongued fathers, I turn not away from the faith that ye teach! Not the less hath a man many moods, and may ask a religion for each.

"Grant that all things are well with the realm on a delicate day of the spring, Easter month, time of hopes and of swallows! The praises, the psalms that ye sing, As in pleasant accord they float heavenward, are good in the ears of the king.

"Then the heart bubbles forth with clear waters, to the time of this wonder-word Peace, From the chanting and preaching whereof ye who serve the white Christ never cease; And your curly, soft incense ascending enwraps my content like a fleece.

"But a churl comes adrip from the rivers, pants me out, fallen spent on the floor, 'O King Raedwald, Northumberland marches, and to-morrow knocks hard at thy door, Hot for melting thy crown on the hearth!' Then commend me to Woden and Thor!

"Could I sit then and listen to preachments on turning the cheek to the blow, And saying a prayer for the smiter, and holding my seen treasure low For the sake of a treasure unseen? By the sledge of the Thunderer, no!

"For my thought flashes out as a sword, cleaving counsel as clottage of cream; And your incense and chanting are but as the smoke of burnt towns and the scream; And I quaff me the thick mead of triumph from enemies' skulls in my dream!

"And 'tis therefore this day I resolve me,--for King Raedwald will cringe not, nor lie!-- I will bring back the altar of Woden; in the temple will have it, hard by The new altar of this your white Christ. As my mood may decide, worship I!"

So he spake in his large self-reliance,--he, a man open-browed as the skies; Would not measure his soul by a standard that was womanish-weak to his eyes, Smite his breast and go on with his sinning,--savage Raedwald, the simple yet wise!

And the centuries bloom o'er his barrow. But for us,--have we mastered it quite, The old riddle, that sweet is strong's outcome, the old marvel, that meekness is might, That the child is the leader of lions, that forgiveness is force at its height?

When we summon the shade of rude Raedwald, in his candor how king-like he towers! Have the centuries, over his slumber, only borne sterile falsehoods for flowers? Pray you, what if Christ found him the nobler, having weighed his frank manhood with ours?

IVO OF CHARTRES

Now may it please my lord, Louis the king, Lily of Christ and France! riding his quest, I, Bishop Ivo, saw a wondrous thing.

There was no light of sun left in the west, And slowly did the moon's new light increase. Heaven, without cloud, above the near hill's crest, Lay passion purple in a breathless peace. Stars started like still tears, in rapture shed, Which without consciousness the lids release.

All steadily, one little sparkle red, Afar, drew close. A woman's form grew up Out of the dimness, tall, with queen-like head, And in one hand was fire; in one, a cup. Of aspect grave she was, with eyes upraised, As one whose thoughts perpetually did sup At the Lord's table.

While the cresset blazed, Her I regarded. "Daughter, whither bent, And wherefore?" As by speech of man amazed, One moment her deep look to me she lent; Then, in a voice of hymn-like, solemn fall, Calm, as by role, she spake out her intent:

"I in my cruse bear water, wherewithal To quench the flames of Hell; and with my fire I Paradise would burn: that hence no small Fear shall impel, and no mean hope shall hire, Men to serve God as they have served of yore; But to his will shall set their whole desire, For love, love, love alone, forevermore!"

And "love, love, love," rang round her as she passed From sight, with mystic murmurs o'er and o'er Reverbed from hollow heaven, as from some vast, Deep-colored, vaulted, ocean-answering shell.

I, Ivo, had no power to ban or bless, But was as one withholden by a spell. Forward she fared in lofty loneliness, Urged on by an imperious inward stress, To waste fair Eden, and to drown fierce Hell.

MADONNA PIA

Ricordati di me, che son la Pia. Siena mi fe; disfecomi Maremma; Salsi colui, che, inanellata pria, Disposato m'avea colla sua gemma.

_Purgatorio_, Canto V.

To westward lies the unseen sea, Blue sea the live winds wander o'er. The many-colored sails can flee, And leave the dead, low-lying shore. Her longing does not seek the main, Her face turns northward first at morn; There, crowning all the wide champaign, Siena stood, where she was born.

Siena stands, and still shall stand; She ne'er shall see or town or tower. Warm life and beauty, hand in hand, Steal farther from her hour by hour. Yet forth she leans, with trembling knees, And northward will she stare and stare Through that thick wall of cypress-trees, And sigh adown the stirless air:

"Shall no remembrance in Siena linger Of me, once fair, whom slow Maremma slays? As well he knows, whose ring upon my finger Hath sealed for his alone mine earthly days!"

From wilds where shudders through the weeds The dull, mean-headed, silent snake, Like voiceless doubt that creeps and breeds; From swamps where sluggish waters take, As lives unblest a passing love, The flag-flower's image in the spring, Or seem, when flits the bird above, To stir within with shadowed wing,

A Presence mounts in pallid mist To fold her close: she breathes its breath; She waxes wan, by Fever kissed, Who weds her for his master, Death, Aside are set her dimmed hopes all, She counts no more the uncurrent hoard; On gray Death's neck she fain would fall, To own him for her proper lord.

She minds the journey here by night: When some red sudden torch would blaze, She saw by fits, with childish fright, The cork-trees twist beside the ways. Like dancing demon shapes they showed, With malice drunk; the bat beat by, The owlet sobbed; on, on they rode, She knew not where, she knows not why.

For Nello--when in piteous wise She lifted up her look to ask, Except the ever-burning eyes His face was like a marble mask. And so it always meets her now; The tomb wherein at last he lies Shall bear such carven lips and brow, All save the ever-burning eyes.

Perchance it is his form alone Doth stroke his hound, at meat doth sit, And, for the soul that was his own, A fiend awhile inhabits it; While he sinks through the fiery throng, Down, to fill an evil bond, Since false conceit of others' wrong Hath wrought him to a sin beyond.

But she--if when her years were glad Vain fluttering thoughts were hers, that hid Behind that gracious fame she had; If e'er observance hard she did That sinful men might call her saint,-- White-handed Pia, dovelike-eyed,-- The sick blank hours shall yet acquaint Her heart with all her blameful pride.

And Death shall find her kneeling low, And lift her to the porphyry stair, And she from ledge to ledge shall go, Stayed by the staff of that last prayer, Until the high, sweet-singing wood Whence folk are rapt to heaven, she win; Therein the unpardoned never stood, Nor may one Sorrow nest therein.

But through the Tuscan land shall beat Her Sorrow, like a wounded bird; And if her suit at Mary's feet Avail, its moan shall yet be heard By some just poet, who shall shed, Whate'er the theme that leads his rhyme Bright words like tears above her, dead, Entreating of the after time:

"Among you let her mournful memory linger! Siena bare her, whom Maremma slew; And this dark lord, who gave her maiden finger His ancient gem, the secret only knew."

TWO MOODS OF FAILURE

I

THE LAST CUP OF CANARY

Sir Harry Lovelock, 1645

So, the powder's low, and the larder's clean, And surrender drapes, with its black impending, All the stage for a sorry and sullen scene: Yet indulge me my whim of a madcap ending!

Let us once more fill, ere the final chill, Every vein with the glow of the rich canary! Since the sweet hot liquor of life's to spill, Of the last of the cellar what boots be chary?

Then hear the conclusion: I'll yield my breath, But my leal old house and my good blade never! Better one bitter kiss on the lips of Death Than despoiled Defeat as a wife forever!

Let the faithful fire hold the walls in ward Till the roof-tree crash! Be the smoke once riven While we flash from the gate like a single sword, True steel to the hilt, though in dull earth driven!

Do you frown, Sir Richard, above your ruff, In the Holbein yonder? My deed ensures you! For the flame like a fencer shall give rebuff To your blades that blunder, you Roundhead boors, you!

And my ladies, a-row on the gallery wall, Not a sing-song sergeant or corporal sainted Shall pierce their breasts with his Puritan ball, To annul the charms of the flesh, though painted!

I have worn like a jewel the life they gave; As the ring in mine ear I can lightly lose it, If my days be done, why, my days were brave! If the end arrive, I as master choose it!

Then fill to the brim, and a health, I say, To our liege King Charles, and I pray God bless him! 'T would amend worse vintage to drink dismay To the clamorous mongrel pack that press him!

And a health to the fair women, past recall, That like birds astray through the heart's hall flitted; To the lean devil Failure last of all, And the lees in his beard for a fiend outwitted!

II

THE YOUNG MAN CHARLES STUART REVIEWETH THE TROOPS ON BLACKHEATH

(Private Constant-in-Tribulation Joyce, _May_, 1660)

We were still as a wood without wind; as 't were set by a spell Stayed the gleam on the steel cap, the glint on the slant petronel. He to left of me drew down his grim grizzled lip with his teeth,-- I remember his look; so we grew like dumb trees on the heath.

But the people,--the people were mad as with store of new wine; Oh, they cheered him, they capped him, they roared as he rode down the line: He that fled us at Worcester, the boy, the green brier-shoot, the son Of the Stuart on whom for his sin the great judgment was done!

Swam before us the field of our shame, and our souls walked afar; Saw the glory, the blaze of the sun bursting over Dunbar; Saw the faces of friends, in the morn riding jocund to fight; Saw the stern pallid faces again, as we saw them at night!

"O ye blessed, who died in the Lord! would to God that we too Had so passed, only sad that we ceased his high justice to do, With the words of the psalm on our lips that from Israel's once came, How the Lord is a strong man of war; yea, the Lord is his name!

"Not for us, not for us! who have served for his kingdom seven years, Yea, and yet other seven have we served, sweating blood, bleeding tears, For the kingdom of God and the saints! Rachel's beauty made bold, Yet we bear but a Leah at last to a hearth that is cold!"

Burned the fire while I mused, while I gloomed; in the end came a call; Settled o'er me a calm like a cloud, spake a voice still and small: "Take thou Leah to bride, take thou Failure to bed and to board! Thou shalt rear up new strengths at her knees; she is given of the Lord!

"If with weight of his right hand, with power, he denieth to deal, And the smoke clouds, and thunders of guns, and the lightnings of steel, Shall the cool silent dews of his grace, in a season of peace, Not descend on the land, as of old, for a sign, on the fleece?

"Hath he cleft not the rock, to the yield of a stream that is sweet? Hath he set in the ribs of the lion no honey for meat? Can he bring not delight to the desert, and buds to the rod? He will shine, he will visit his vine; he hath sworn, he is God!"

Then I thought of the gate I rode through on the roan that's long dead,-- I remember the dawn was but pale, and the stars overhead; Of the babe that is grown to a maid, and of Martha, my wife, And the spring on the wolds far away, and gave thanks for my life!

THE STORY OF THE "ORIENT"

'T was a pleasant Sunday morning while the spring was in its glory, English spring of gentle glory; smoking by his cottage door, Florid-faced, the man-o'-war's-man told his white-head boy the story, Noble story of Aboukir, told a hundred times before.

"Here, the _Theseus_--here, the _Vanguard_;" as he spoke each name sonorous,-- _Minotaur, Defence, Majestic_, stanch old comrades of the brine, That against the ships of Brucys made their broadsides roar in chorus,-- Ranging daisies on his doorstone, deft he mapped the battle-line.

Mapped the curve of tall three-deckers, deft as might a man left-handed, Who had given an arm to England later on at Trafalgar. While he poured the praise of Nelson to the child with eyes expanded, Bright athwart his honest forehead blushed the scarlet cutlass-scar.