Ail^ni"^ ^^h^s The date shows when this volume was taken. APR 30 im All books not in use for instruction sit re- search are limited to four weeks to all bor- irs. Periodicals of a gen- eral character should be returned as soon as possible ; when needed beyond two weeks a special request should be made. All student borrow- ers are limited to two weeks, with renewal privileges, when the book is not needed by others. Sooks not needed during recess periods should be returned to the library, or arrange- ments made for their return during borrow- er's absence, if wanted. Books needed by more than one person belong on the reserve list. Cornell University Library PR 5553.A29 Tennyson for the young 3 1924 013 558 857 The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013558857 TENNYSON FOR THE YOUNG TENNYSON FOR THE YOUNG WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY ALFRED AINGER 2.ontion MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 189I Ail rights reserved Missing Page Missing Page Missing Page Missing Page VI PREFACE Poetry and Prose by young people is at this moment most in danger. Rather does the Editor hope that this little book may become a favourite when the school hours are over, on a bench in the summer garden, or on a sofa in the winter evenings ; that it may be taken up again and again because of its delightfulness, and not because a coming lesson already ' casts its shadow before ' ; and that it may serve to illustrate that most certain truth that the wisest education may be in pro- gress where any thought or idea of education is least present. And though the sympathetic voice and educated intelligence of mother or elder sister, reading these poems aloud, will often be found helpful, still there is hardly a poem here included that will not reveal some- thing of its meaning and beauty to the very youngest by ' its own radiant light' The principle on which the poems here collected have been chosen is very simple. Variety — within the proposed limits — has been aimed at, and no one class of subjects or treat- ment will be found to predominate. Poems of a metaphysical cast have been avoided. The thoughts and speculations of The Two Voices, or the deep moral problems suggested in the Palace of Art or the Vision of Sin, are not for the young. Poems dealing with Love, in its more passionate aspect, have for like reasons PREFACE Vll been excluded. Fragments, again, except in one or two instances, have not been given, and only when the passage (as from In Memoriam) could be separated with least injury to its interest or significance. But when these ex- ceptions are allowed, the Editor has been sur- prised to find how much of Lord Tennyson's finest and most thoughtful verse is suitable to those whose acquaintance with literature is as yet of the slightest. This remark, however, is not meant to sug- gest that even the easiest and simplest of the poems here printed are to be. completely gauged or fathomed by the young, and that there is not, in the so-called simple poetry of any great poet, much that will ' travel with us ' far beyond the term of childhood, teaching and unfolding ever more of truth and beauty as we advance. It is the infallible test of the best verse that it is never outgrown. Its charm abides. As we grow, it grows with us. A poem such as Dora, which does not contain a word, an allusion, a thought, a sentiment, that may not interest and delight a child of ten, can never lose any of its beauty and pathos for the very oldest reader. Such is the privilege and the power of genius. On the other hand, I have allowed certain pieces to be here included in apparent violation of the principle just laid down. The Lady of Shalott, for instance, might seem an allegory viii PREFACE too deep or too subtle for the young, and to need, more than most of its companions, the interpreting aid of riper years and ' the graver mind.' This is so, and yet there are other quahties in such a poem, appeahng to the ear and heart of even the youngest, and it is of primary importance that these qualities should become early familiar. The witchery of con- summate verse — lyrical or descriptive — its exquisite music, may so early fill and possess the ear of the young (so the Editor's experience has taught him) that a standard of judgment is insensibly formed, effectually preventing the taste being ever afterwards allured by what is vulgar and garish, or the ear being ever fas- cinated by some clever poetical diction which yet is not Poetry. Nor is this to precipitate matters,. or reverse an order which we should all recognise as fitting, in the cultivation of taste. A mistake is sometimes made, confounding easy verse (verse such as beginners may understand) with verse that is mediocre. Teachers appear some- times to assume that the taste may safely be formed upon something which a maturer judgment will some day look back upon as inferior, and wonder that it could ever have been enjoyed. A great mistake. There is no need to have resort to what is inferior. There is abundance of the best in poetry that can PREFACE ix attract and satisfy the young. The kind, in- deed, should be carefully chosen; and tfien, let it be the best in that kind. And let it be various. Next to the importance of feeding the spirit, heart, and imagination on the best of food, is that of making a child ^arly understand how wide is the range of what is good. Any good poetry helps the enjoyment of all other good poetry. Next to the importance of keep- ing one's standard high is that of keeping it wide. The ordinary critical fallacy of our day is that exclusiveness is the true mark of a culti- vated taste, whereas it is the certain mark of an imperfect education. As to the special reasons for wishing to acquaint young readers with the poetry of Lord Tennyson, it is not easy to speak without falling into a strain of eulogy beside the present pur- pose. A few have been already indicated ; and in view of the unabashed critics of the day, periodically assuring us that the writer of the last new volume of rhymfes has taken rank at one bound among the immortals, whereas in some nine days' time it is found, in homely Shak- spearian phrase, to be 'no such matter,' it is surely wise to let the young taste be formed upon models that shall never betray the heart that loved them ; upon verse that has stood the test of fifty years, with all their changes of whim and fashion, and must continue to live and be X PREFACE loved by that mysterious and potent quality of charm. Is it presumptuous to dispute, or even to explain, Keats's famous line as to what con- stitutes a joy for ever ? Yet there are beautiful things in the world whose beauty we do not for a moment question, but which do not awaken in us feelings akin to joy. We confess their beauty, and bow before them, and go our way ; but they do not therefore take up their abode with us, and become companions, and soothe us, and make us happier whenever we summon them afresh to ' the sessions of sweet silent thought.' This service the poetry of Lord Tennyson pre-eminently rendered to the Editor of this little volume when he too was young, and he would fain make others sharers in his experience. A. A. Clifton, August i8gi. CONTENTS LYRICS The Poet's Song .... Child-Songs — 'What does Little Birdie say? The City Child . MifJNiE AND Winnie Song — The Owl . Second Song — To the Same The Brook .... The Throstle The Snowdrop The Oak The Blackbird The Dying Swan . Songs from 'The Princess' Song from ' Maud ' Circumstance The Death of the Old Year. Early Spring A Farewell . PAGE I 2 2 3 3 4 5 6 7 7 8 9 10 14 15 IS 17 19 xu CONTENTS ARTHURIAN POEMS T^ Lady of Shalott "Sir Galahad .... /ii. ARIANA PAGE 20 25 28 PATRIOTIC POEMS The Charge of the Light Brigade . ^HE Revenge : A Ballad of the Fleet The Defence of Lucknow . A Welcome to Alexandra . 31 33 39 45 CANTOS FROM 'IN MEMC RIAM' Lazarus . ... • 47 Ring out Wild Bells . . 48 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS The May Queen .... . 50 New-Year's Eve . • 52 Conclusion .... ■ 55 Dora . . ... • 59 Lady Clare . . 64 The Lord of Burleigh . 66 Edward Gray .... . . 69 I^E Day-Dream— The Sleeping Palace . • 71 The Sleeping Beauty . • 73 The Arrival. • 73 The Revival .... • 75 The Departure . . 76 ^. CONTENTS XIU PAGE HE Beggar Maid 77 The Captain : A Legend of the Navy . 77 The Sailor Boy 80 In the Children's Hospital: Emmie . 81 The Grandmother 85 OwD ROA ... ... 92 The Northern Cobbler .... 100 'Break, Break, Break' . . . .108 Crossing the Bar 109 LYRICS THE POET'S SONG The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place. And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud. And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, ' I have sung many songs. But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away.' 2 LYRICS CHILD-SONGS 'WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?' What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say. In her bed at peep of day ? Baby says, like little birdie. Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer. Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. THE CITY CHILD Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells ? ' Far and far away,' said the dainty little maiden, 'AH among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells.' Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours ? ' Far and far away,' said the dainty little maiden, ' All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers;' CHILD-SONGS MINNIE AND WINNIE Minnie and Winnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies ! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without ; Sounds of the great sea Wander'd about. Sleep, little ladies ! Wake not soon ! Echo on echo Dies to the moon Two bright stars Peep'd into the shell. ' What are they dreaming of .? Who can tell V Started a green linnet Out of the croft ; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft ! SONG— THE OWL I When cats run home and hght is come, And dew is cold upon the ground. And the far-off stream is dumb, LYRICS And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay. And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay. Twice or thrice his roundelay ; Alone and warming his five wits. The white owl in the belfry sits. SECOND SONG TO THE SAME Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight. That her voice untuneful grown. Wears all day a fainter tone. I would mock thy chaunt anew ; But I cannot mimick it ; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. THE BROOK THE BROOK I COME from haunts of coot and hem, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges. By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways. In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out. With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling, LYRICS And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. THE THROSTLE ' Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,' Yes, my wild little Poet. THE. SNOWDROP 7 Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. ' New, new, new, new ' ! Is it then so new That you should carol so madly ? ' Love again, song again, nest again, young again,' Never a prophet so crazy ! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. ' Here again, here, here, here, happy year ' ! O warble unchidden, unbidden ! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden. THE SNOWDROP Many, many welcomes February fair-maid. Ever as of old time, Solitary firstling, Coming in the cold time, Prophet of the gay time. Prophet of the May time, Prophet of the roses, Many, many welcomes February fair-maid ! THE OAK Live thy Life, Young and old. Like yon oak. Bright in spring, Living gold ; LYSICS Summer-rich Then ; and then Autumn-changed, Soberer-hued Gold again. All his leaves Fall'n at length, Look, he stands. Trunk and bough, Naked strength. THE BLACKBIRD O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well : While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou mayst warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark. All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, the' I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 1 hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. THE DYING SWAN Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DYING SWAN I The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on. And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky. Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will. And far thro' the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept. Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. Ill The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear ; 10 LYRICS And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; But anon her awful jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roU'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar. To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among. Were flooded over with eddying song. SONGS FROM 'THE PRINCESS' As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears. When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears ! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave, O there above the little grave. We kiss'd again with tears. SONGS FROM ' THE PRINCESS ' i Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea. Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon ; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest. Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep,^ my pretty one, sleep. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes. And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 12 LYRICS ' Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. ' Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld. Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. ' Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. ' Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others ; deep as love. Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.' ' O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. ' O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. ' O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. ' O were I thou that she might take me in. And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. SONGS FROM ' THE PRINCESS' 13 ' Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? ' O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown : Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,- But in the North long since my nest is made. ' O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. ' O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' Home they brought her warrior dead : She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : AH her maidens, watching, said, ' She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place. Lightly to the warrior stept. Took the face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee- Like summer tempest came her tears- ' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' f4 LYRICS SONG FROM 'MAUD' I Birds in the high Hall-garden When twilight was falling, Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, They were crying and calling. II Where was Maud ? in our wood ; And I, who else, was with her, Gathering woodland lilies, Myriads blow together. Ill Birds in our wood sang Ringing thro' the valleys, Maud is here, here, here In among the lilies. IV I kiss'd her slender hand, She took the kiss sedately ; Maud is not seventeen. But she is tall and stately. V I to cry out on pride Who have won her favour ! Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her. VI 1 know the way she went Home with her maiden posy, For her feet have touch'd the meadows And left the daisies rosy. CIRCUMSTANCE 15 VII Birds in the high Hall-garden Were crying and calling to her, Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? One is come to woo her. VIII Look, a horse at the door, And little King Charley snarling, Go back, my lord, across the moor. You are not her darling. CIRCUMSTANCE Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church- tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy blossomed ; Two children in one hamlet bom and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing : Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low. For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily. You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. i6 LYRICS He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth'd his- bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste. But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend. And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : EARLY SPRING 17 What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend. And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. EARLY SPRING I Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plow'd hills With loving blue ; The blackbirds have their wills. The throstles too. II Opens a door in Heaven ; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. Ill Before them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands. And flash the floods ; c i8 LYRICS The stars are from their hands Flung thro' the woods, IV The woods with living airs How softly fann'd, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep. Heard by the land. V O follow, leaping blood, The season's lure ! O heart, look down and up Serene, secure. Warm as the crocus cup, Like snowdrops, pure ! VI Past, Future glimpse and fade Thro' some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale. Some far blue fell, And sympathies, how frail. In sound and smell ! VII Till at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range. And, lightly stirr'd. Ring little bells of change From word to word. VIII For now the Heavenly Power Makes all things new. A FAREWELL 19 And thaws the cold, and fills The flower with dew ; The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too. A FAREWELL Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver ; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver ; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever ARTHURIAN POEMS THE LADY OF SHALOTT PART I On either side the river he Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ! And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the Hlies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver. Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers. And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd. Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses ; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot : THE LADY OF SHALOTT But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley. Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary. Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers ' 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.' PART II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls. And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. An abbot on an ambling pad. ARTHURIAN POEMS Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two : She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed : ' I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. PART III A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield. That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily I As he rode down to Camelot : And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. THE LADY OF SHALOTT 23 All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Bum'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright. Some bearded meteor, trailing light. Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, ' Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom. She saw the helmet and the plume. She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV In the stormy east- wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning. The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat. 24 ARTHURIAN POEMS And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among. They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly. And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died. The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by. Dead-pale between the houses high. Silent into Camelot. S/J? GALAHAD 25 Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame. And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the hghted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross'd themselves for fear. All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, ' She has a lovely face ; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.' SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men. My tough lance thrusteth sure. My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists. And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall ! For them I battle till the end. To save from shame and thrall : But all my heart is drawn above. My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 26 ARTHURIAN POEMS I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill ; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. The silver vessels sparkle clean. The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark ; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars. As down dark tides the glory slides. And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go. The cock crows ere the Christmas mom. The streets are dumb with snow. SIR GALAHAD 27 The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height j No branchy thicket shelter yields .; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear ; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease. Pure spaces clothed in living beams. Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand. This mortal armour that I wear. This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod. Wings flutter, voices hover clear : ' O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near.' So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, AU-arm'd.J ride, whate'er betide, Until Ifind the holy Grail. 28 MARIANA MARIANA * Mariana in the moated grange,' Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all : The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : Unlifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !' Her tears fell with the dews at even ; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at mom or eventide. After the flitting of the bats. When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the gloommg flats. She only said, ' The night is dreary. He cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !' Upon the middle of the night. Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light : From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change. In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, MARIANA 29 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' The day is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !' About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small. The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway. All silver-green with gnarled bark : For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low. And wild winds bound within their cell. The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ' The night is dreary. He cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Behind the miouldering wainscot shriek'd. 30 MARIANA Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !' The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, ' I am very dreary, He will not come,' she said ; She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead !' PATRIOTIC POEMS THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward. All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. ' Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns ! ' he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. ' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd : Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason wh)-, Their's but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Ill Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them VoUey'd and thunder'd ; 32 PATRIOTIC POEMS Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there. Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them. Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell. While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them. Left of six hundred. VI When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made ! All the world wonder'd. THE REVENGE 33 Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred. THE REVENGE A BALLAD OF THE FLEET I At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away : ' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three ! ' Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : ' 'Fore God I am no coward ; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three?' II Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are no coward ; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' D 34 PATRIOTIC POEMS III So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below ; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. IV He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight. And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. ' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die ! There'll be httle of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil. For I never tum'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' V Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so THE REVENGE 35 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea- lane between. VI Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd. Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawn- ing tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. VII And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; 36 PA TRIO TIC POEMS And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers. And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high- built galleons came, Ship after ship the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame ; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more — God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before ? For he said ' Fight on ! fight on !' Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it sud- denly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head. And he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' THE REVENGE 37 XI And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring ; ■ But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold. And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent ; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, ' We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again ! We have won great glory, my men ! And a day less or more At sea or ashore. We die — does it matter when ? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain !' XII And the gianner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply : ' We have children, we have wives. And the Lord hath spared our lives. •38 PATRIOTIC POEMS We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go ; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. xin And the Stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last. And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace ; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : ' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true ; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die 1' And he fell upon their decks, and he died. XIV And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true. And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few ; Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they knew, Bui they sank his body with honour down into the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew. And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNO W 39 When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW I Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle- cry ! Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee on high Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow — Shot thro' the staif or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Engla-nd blew. II Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives — Women and children among us, God help them, • our children and wives ! 40 PATRIOTIC POEMS Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. ' Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post !' Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave : Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him — we laid him that night in his grave. ' Every man die at his post ! ' and there hail'd on our houses and halls Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls. Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell. Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and their shell. Death — for their spies were among us, their marks- men were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could think for the rest ; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet — Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round — Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street. Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground ! Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine 1 down, down ! and creep thro' the hole ! Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear him — the murderous mole ! THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNO W 41 Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro' ! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before — Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew ! Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd away. Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends jn their hell — Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell — Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily devour'd by the tide — So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape ? Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men ! Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their masses are gapp'd with our grape — Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they could not subdue ; 42 PATRIOTIC POEMS And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. IV Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure. Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him ; Still — could we watch at all points ? we were every day fewer and fewer. There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past : ' Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold unawares — Every man die at his post — and the foe may out- live us at last — Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs !' Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true ! Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades — • Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. V Then on another wild morning another wild earth- quake out-tore THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW 43 Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun — One has leapt up on the breach, crying out : ' Follow me, follow me !' — Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him too, and down goes he. Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won ? ■Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! make way for the gun ! Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and we fire, and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due ! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few. Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew, That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. VI Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight ! But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the night — Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms. Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms. Ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five. Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive. Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around, 44 PATRIOTIC POEMS Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground, Heat hke the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal'd. Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife, — Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never could save us a life. Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed. Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead. Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief. Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, Havelock bafHed, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that we knew — Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter'd walls Millions of musket -bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what was told by the scout, Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers ? A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 45 Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears ! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers, Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out. Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers. Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with their tears ! Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are saved ! — is it you ? is it you ? Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven ! ' Hold it for fifteen days ! ' we have held it for eighty-seven ! And ever'aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA MARCH 7, 1863. Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, Alexandra ! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, Scatter the blossom under her feet ! Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers ! Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! 46 PATRIOTIC POEMS Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ' Flames, on the windy headland flare ! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher Melt into stars for the land's desire ! Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand. Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair. Blissful bride of a blissful heir, Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — O joy to the people and joy to the throne. Come to us, love us and make us your own : For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! CANTOS FROM 'IN MEMORIAM' LAZARUS I When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary's house return'd, Was this demanded — if he yearn'd To hear her weeping by his grave ? ' Where wert thou, brother, those four days ?' There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fiU'd with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ ! The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; He told it not ; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there, 48 CANTOS FROM 'IN MEMORIAM' Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete. She bows, she bathes the Saviours feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. Whose loves in higher love endure ; What souls possess themselves so pure. Or is there blessedness like theirs ? RING OUT, WILD BELLS Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new. Ring, happy bells, across the snow : The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind. For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor. Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of hfe. With sweeter manners, purer laws. RING OUT, WILD BELLS 49 Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land. Ring in the Christ that is to be. NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS THE MAY QUEEN You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; »• To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. THE MAY QUEEN 51 As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday. But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel -hearted, but I care not what they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; S2 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS And the wild marsh -marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW-YEAR'S EVE If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New, year. THE MAY QUEEN 53 It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm- tree. And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moulder- ing grSve. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 54 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the liawthorn shade. And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass. With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my rest- ing-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say. And be often, often with you when you think I'ni far away. THE MAY QUEEN 55 Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set Aboutthe parlour-windowand thebox of mignonette. Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is bom. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. S6 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before 1 find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be. For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. THE MA Y QUEEN 57 All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd. And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I hsten'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; and I said, ' It's not for them : it's mine.' And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near, I trust it is. 1 know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 58 NARRATIVE POEMS AlSfD BALLADS And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — ■ To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. DORA 59 DORA With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, ' I'll make them man and wife. ' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. And yeam'd toward William ; but the youth, be- cause He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, ' My son : I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die : And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter : he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day. For many years.' But William answer'd short ; ' I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said ; ' You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. And never more darken my doors again.' But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her 6o NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father^s house, And hired himself to work within the fields ; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mafy Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said : ' My girl, I love you well ; But if you speak with him that was my son. Or change a word with her he calls his wife. My home is none of yours. My will is law.' And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, ' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change !' And days went on, and there was bom a boy To William ; then distresses came on him ; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora^stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : ' I have obey'd my unde until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first; But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gorle. And for your sake, the woman that he chose. And for this orphan, I am come to you : You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest ! let me take the boy. And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' And Dora took the Child, and went her way DORA 6i Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him. But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said : * Where were you yesterday ? Whose child is that } What are you doing here ?' So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child !' 'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not Forbid you, Dora ?' Dora said again : ' Do with me as you will, but take the child. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone !' And Allan said, ' I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field. More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. Remembering the day when first she came. And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 62 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, ' My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you : He says that he will never see me more.' Then answer'd Mary, ' This shall never be. That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; And I will beg of him to take thee back : But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us.' So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said : ' O Father ! — if you let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself. Or William, or this child ; but now I come For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. DORA 63 Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. He could not ever rue his marrying me — • 1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus : " God bless him !" he said, " and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' !" Then he tum'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory ; and take Dora back. And let all this be as it was before.' So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 'I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him — ^but I loved him — my dear son. May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.' Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse ; And all his love came back a hundredfold ; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together ; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 64 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS LADY CLARE It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth*d were they : They two will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the day ! ' He does not love me for my birth. Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse. Said, ' Who was this that went from thee ? ' ' It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, ' To-morrow he weds with me.' ' O God be thank'd ! ' said Alice the nurse, ' That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. And you are not the Lady Clare.' 'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse.'" Said Lady Clare, ' that ye speak so wild ? ' 'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, ' I speak the truth : you are my child. ' The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.' ' Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, ' if this be true. LADY CLARE 65 To keep the best man under the sun So niany years from his due.' ' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, ' But keep the secret for your life. And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.' ' If I'm a beggar bom,' she said, ' I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.' ' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, ' But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, ' Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man.' ' Nay now, what faith ? ' said Alice the nurse, ' The man will cleave unto his right.' ' And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'Tho' I should die to-night.' ' Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.' ' O mother, mother, mother,' she said, ' So strange it seems to me. ' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so. And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.' She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, F 66 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And foUow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : ' O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? ' ' If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born,' she said, 'And not the Lady Clare.' ' Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, ' For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, ' Your riddle is hard to read.' O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : ' If you are not the heiress born. And I,' said he, 'the next in blood — ' If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow mom. And you shall still be Lady Clare.' THE LORD OF BURLEIGH In her ear he whispers gaily, ' If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.' THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 67 She replies, in accents fainter, ' There is none I love like thee.' He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter. Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof ' I can make no marriage present : Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.' They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing. Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses. Says to her that loves him well, ' Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.' So she goes by him attended. Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer. Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly. 68 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before : Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine. Proudly turns he round and kindly, 'AH of this is mine and thine.' Here he lives in state and bounty. Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover. And he cheer' d her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank : Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he. And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her- much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her. And perplex'd her, night and morn, EDWARD GRAY 69 With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, And she murmur'd, ' Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter. Which did win my heart from me ! ' So she droop'd and droop'd before him. Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him. Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early. Walking up and pacing down. Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her. And he look'd at her and said, ' Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.' Then her people, softly treading. Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in. That her spirit might have rest. EDWARD GRAY Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, ' And have you lost your heart ?' she said ; ' And are you married yet, Edward Gray .■" Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : ' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 70 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS ' Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. ' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; Fill'd I was with folly and spite. When Ellen Adair was dying for me. ' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : " You're too slight and fickle," I said, " To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'' ' There I put my face in the grass — Whisper'd, " Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair !" ' Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, " Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray !" ' Love may come, and love may go. And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree ; But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. ' Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray !' THE DAY-DREAM 71 THE DAY-DREAM THE SLEEPING PALACE I The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains, Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd. Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower. On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower. The parrot in his gilded wires. Ill Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs : In these, in those the life is stay'd. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily : no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. IV Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and there 72 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair ; The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are sever'd as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather'd in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance Uke a little wood ; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen. High up, the topmost palace spire. When will the hundred summers die. And thought and time be bom again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? Here all things in their place remain. As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. THE DAY-DREAM 73 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY I Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet. The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. II The silk star-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever ; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roU'd, Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. Ill She sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps : on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL I All precious things, discover'd late. To those that seek them issue forth ; 74 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies— His mantle glitters on the rocks — A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox. II The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass. Are wither'd in the thorny close. Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. He gazes on the silent dead : ' They perish'd in their daring deeds.' This proverb flashes thro' his head, ' The many fail : the one succeeds.' HI He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : He breaks the hedge : he enters there : The colour flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light on something fair ; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With- words of promise in his walk, And whisper'd voices at his ear. More close and close his footsteps wind : The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. ' Love, if thy tresses be so dark, How dark those hidden eyes must be !' THE DAY-DREAM 75 THE REVIVAL I A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks : A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro' all the garden swept^ A sudden hubbub shook the hall. And sixty feet the fountain leapt. II The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd. The maid and page renew'd their strife. The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt. And all the long-pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract. And last with these the king ^woke. And in his chair himself uprear'd. And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, ' By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you ? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap.' The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. ' Pardy,' retum'd the king, ' but still My joints are somewhat stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention'd half an hour ago ?' 76 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS The chancellor, sedate and vain, In courteous words return'd reply : But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPARTURE And on her lover's arm she leant. And round her waist she felt it fold. And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess foUow'd him. ' I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ;' ' O wake for ever, love,' she hears, ' O love, 'twas such as this and this.' And o'er them many a sliding star. And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. The twilight melted into morn. ' O eyes long laid in happy sleep !' ' O happy sleep, that lightly fled !' ' O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep !' ' O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark. And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. THE BEGGAR MAID 77 IV ' A hundred summers ! can it be ? And whither goest thou, tell me where ?' ' O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there.' And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she foUow'd him. THE BEGGAR MAID Her arms across her breast she laid ; She was more fair than words can say : Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down. To meet and greet her on her way ; ' It is no wonder,' said the lords, ' She is more beautiful than day.' As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : One praised her ancles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been : Cophetua sware a royal oath : 'This beggar maid shall be my queen !' THE CAPTAIN A LEGEND OF THE NAVY He that only rules by terror Doeth grievous wrong. 78 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Deep as Hell I count his error. Let him hear my song. Brave the Captain was : the seamen Made a gallant crew, Gallant sons of English freemen, Sailors bold and true. But they hated his oppression. Stern he was and rash ; So for every light transgression Doom'd them to the lash. Day by day more harsh and cruel Seem'd the Captain's mood. Secret wrath like smother'd fuel Burnt in each man's blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory. Hoped to make the name Of his vessel great in story, Wheresoe'er he came. So they past by capes and islands. Many a harbour-mouth, Sailing under palmy highlands Far within the South. On a day when they were going O'er the lone expanse, In the north, her canvas flowing, Rose a ship of France. Then the Captain's colour heighten'd. Joyful came his speech : But a cloudy gladness lighten'd In the eyes of each. ' Chase,' he said : the ship flew forward, And the wind did blow ; Stately, lightly, went she Norward, Till she near'd the foe. Then they look'd at him they hated. Had what they desired : Mute with folded arms they waited — THE CAPTAIN 79 Not a gun was fired. But they heard the foeman's thunder Roaring out their doom ; All the air was torn in sunder, Crashing went the boom, Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd, Bullets fell hke rain ; Over mast and deck were scatter'd Blood and brains of men. Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken : Every mother's son — Down they dropt — no word was spoken — Each beside his gun. On the decks as they were lying, Were their faces grim. In their blood, as they lay dying, Did they smile on him. Those, in whom he had reliance For his noble name, With one smile of still defiance Sold him unto shame. Shame and wrath his heart confounded, Pale he turn'd and red. Till himself was deadly wounded Falling on the dead. Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! Years have wander'd by. Side by side beneath the water Crew and Captain lie ; There the sunlit ocean tosses O'er them mouldering, And the lonely seabird crosses With one waft of the wing. 8o NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS THE SAILOR BOY He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o'er the seething harbour-bar, And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star. And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, ' O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt he. ' The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay, And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.' ' Fool,' he answer'd, ' death is sure To those that stay and those that roam, But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home. ' My mother clings about my neck. My sisters crying, " Stay for shame ;" My father raves of death and wreck, They are all to blame, they are all to blame. ' God help me ! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me.' IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 8i IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL EMMIE I Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands — Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands ! Wonderfiil cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb. And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead. And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn'd at his knee — ■ Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that ever such things should be ! II Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting eye — Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of its place — Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all but a hopeless case : And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice and his face were not kind, G 82 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly 'The lad will need little more of your care.' ' All the more need,' I told him, ' to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own : ' But he turn'd to me, ' Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone ? ' Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him say 'AH very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his day.' Ill Had .'' has it come ? It has only dawn'd. It will come by and by. O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie ? How could I bear with the sights and the loath- some smells of disease But that He said ' Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these ' ? IV So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger children are laid : Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid ; Empty you see just now ! We have lost her who loved her so much — Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch ; Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears. Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years — ■ IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 83 Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used to send her the flowers ; How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours ! They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are reveal'd Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field ; Flowers to these ' spirits in prison ' are all they can know of the spring, They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an Angel's wing ; And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crost on her breast — Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest, Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said ' Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live thro' it, I fear.' V I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I return'd to the ward ; the child didn't see I was there. VI Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext ! Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her cot to the next, ' He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what shall 1 do?' Annie consider'd. 'If I,' said the wise little Annie, ' was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see. 84 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS It's all in the picture there : "Little children should come to me." ' {Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about his knees.) ' Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, ' but then if I call to the Lord, How should he know that it's me ? such a lot of beds in the ward ! ' That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and said : ' Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed — The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you tell it him plain, It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane.' VII 1 had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch her for four — My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping -night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass. And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about. The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness without ; My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life ; THE GRANDMOTHER 85 Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by me and smiled, And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the child. VIII He had brought his ghastly tools : we believ'd her asleep again — Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane ; Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care what they say ? The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past away. THE GRANDMOTHER I And Willy, my eldestAorn, is gone, you say, little Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. And Willy's wife has written : she never was over- wise. Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. II For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 86 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS III Willy, my beauty, my eldest-bom, the flower of the flock; Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. ' Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! ' says doQtor ; and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. IV Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. V Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. THE GRANDMOTHER 87 For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. vni And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise. That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright. But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. IX And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. X And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 88 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS XI All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. XII Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. And I said, ' Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same. You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.' And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : ' Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still.' XIV ' Marry you, Willy ! ' said I, ' but I needs must speak my mind, And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.' But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, ' No, love, no ; ' Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. THE GRANDMOTHER 89 XV So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. XVI That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. xvu His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another mom : But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. XVIII. But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 90 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS XIX But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died : I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. XX Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two. Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. XXI And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team : Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. XXII And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive ; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : And Willy, my eldest-bom, at nigh threescore and ten ; 1 knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. THE GRANDMOTHER 91 XXIII For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve; I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : And the neighbours come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease ; And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. I seem to be tired a little, that's aU, and long for rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-bom, my flower ; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, — Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 92 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS XXVII And Willy's wife has written, she never was over- wise. Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. OWD ROAi Naay, noa mander^ o' use to be callin' 'im Roa, Roa, Roa, Fo' the dog's stoan-deaf, an' 'e's blind, 'e can naither stan' nor goa. But I means ftir to maake 'is owd aage as 'appy as iver I can. Fur I owas owd Roaver moor nor I iver owad mottal man. Thou's rode of 'is back when a babby, afoor thou was gotten too owd. For 'e'd fetch an' carry like owt, 'e was alius as good as gowd. Eh, but 'e'd fight wi' a will when 'e fowt ; 'e could howd^ 'is oan. An' Roa was the dog as knaw'd when an' wheere to bury his boane. An' 'e kep his head hoop like a king, an' 'e'd niver not down wi' 'is taail, Fur 'e'd niver done nowt to be shaamed on, when we was i' Howlaby Daale. 1 Old Rover. ^ Manner. » Hold. OWD ROA 93 An' 'e sarved me sa well when 'e lived, that, Dick, when 'e cooms to be dead, I thinks as I'd like fur to hev soom soort of a sarvice read. Fur 'e's moor good sense na the Parliament man 'at stans fur us 'ere, An' I'd voat fur 'im, my can sen, if 'e could but Stan fur the Shere. ' Faaithful an' True ' — them words be i' Scriptur — an' Faaithful an' True UU be fun' i upo' four short legs ten times fur one upo' two. An' maaybe they'll walk upo' two but I knaws they runs upo' four,^ — ■ Bedtime, Dicky ! but waait till tha 'ears it be strikin' the hour. Fur I wants to tell tha o' Roa when we lived i' Howlaby Daale, Ten year sin — Naay — naay ! tha mun nobbut hev' one glass of aale. Straange an' owd-farran'd^ the 'ouse, an' belt* long afoor my daay Wi' haafe o' the chimleys a-twizzen'd ^ an' twined like a band o' haay. The fellers as maakes them picturs, 'ud coom at the fall o' the year, An' sattle their ends upo stools to pictur the door- poorch theere. An' the Heagle 'as hed two heads stannin' theere o' the brokken stick ;^ ' Found. ^ ' Ou ' as in ' house. ' ' 'Owd-farran'd,' old-fashioned. ■• Built. ^ ' Twizzen'd, ' twisted. * On a staff raguU. 94 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS An' they niver 'ed seed sich ivin' ^ as graVd hall ower the brick ; An' theere i' the 'ouse one night — but it's down, an' all on it now Goan into mangles an' tonups,^ an' raaved slick thruf by the plow — Theere, when the 'ouse wur a house, one night I wur sittin' aloan, Wi' Roaver athurt my feeat, an' sleeapin still as a stoan. Of a Christmas Eave, an' as cowd as this, an' the midders ' as white. An' the fences all on 'em bolster'd oop wi' the windle * that night ; An' the cat wur a-sleeapin alongside Roaver, but I wur awaake. An' smoakin' an' thinkin' o' things — Doant maake thysen sick wi' the caake. Fur the men ater supper 'ed sung their songs an' 'ed 'ed their beer. An' 'ed goan their waays ; ther was nobbut three, an' noan on 'em theere. They was all on 'em fear'd o' the Ghoast an' dussn't not sleeap i' the 'ouse. But Dicky, the Ghoast moastlins ^ was nobbut a rat or a mouse. An' I loookt out wonst ^ at the night, an' the daale was all of a thaw. Fur I seed the beck coomin' down like a long black snaake i' the snaw, ' Ivy. 2 Mangolds and turnips. 3 Meadows. * Drifted snow. ° 'Moastlins,' for the most part, generally. ^ Once. OWD ROA 95 An' I heard great heaps o' the snaw slushin' down fro' the bank to the beck, An' then as I stood i' the doorwaay, I feeald it drip o' my neck. Saw I tum'd in agean, an' I thowt o' the good owd times 'at was goan, An' the munney they maade by the war, an' the times 'at was coomin' on ; Fur I thowt if the Staate was a gawin' to let in furriners' wheat, Howiver was British farmers to stan' agean o' their feeat. Howiver was I fur to find my rent an' to paay my men ? An' all along o' the feller i as tum'd 'is back of hissen. Thou slep i' the chaumber above us, we couldn't ha' 'eard tha call, Sa Moother 'ed tell'd ma to bring tha down, an' thy craadle an' all ; Fur the gell o' the farm 'at slep wi' tha then 'ed gotten wer leave. Fur to goa that night to 'er foalk by cause o' the Christmas Eave ; But I clean forgot tha, my lad, when Moother 'ed gotten to bed. An' I slep i' my chair hup-on-end, an' the Freea Traade runn'd i' my 'ead. Till I dream'd 'at Squire walkt in, an' I says to him ' Squire, ya're laate,' Then I seed at 'is faace wur as red as the Yule- block theer i' the graate. 1 Peel. 96 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS An' 'e says ' can ya paay me the rent to-night ?' an' I says to 'im ' Noa,' An' 'e cotch'd howd hard o' my hairm,i 'Then hout to-night tha shall goa.' ' Tha'U niver,' says I, ' be a-tumin ma hout upo' Christmas Eave'? Then I waaked an' I fun it was Roaver a-tuggin' an' tearin' my sheave. An' I thowt as 'e'd goan clean-wud,^ fur I noa- waays knaw'd 'is intent ; An' I says ' Git awaay, ya beast,' an' I fetcht 'im a kick an' 'e went. Then 'e tummled up stairs, fur I 'eard 'im, as if 'e'd 'a brokken 'is neck. An' I'd clear forgot, little Dicky, thy chaumber door wouldn't sneck ;^ An' I slep' i' my chair agean wi' my hairm hingin' down to the floor. An' I thowt it was Roaver a-tuggin' an' tearin' me wuss nor afoor. An' I thowt 'at I kick'd 'im agean, but I kick'd thy Moother istead. ' What arta snorin' theere fur ? the house is afire,' she said. Thy Moother 'ed bean a-naggin' about the gell o' the farm, She ofTens 'ud spy summut wrong when there warn't not a mossel o' harm ; An' she didn't not solidly mean I wur gawin' that waay to the bad, 1 Arm. 2 Mad. » Latch. O WD ROA 97 Fur the gell i was as howry a troUope as iver traapes'd i' the squad. But Moother was free of 'er tongue, as I ofifens 'ev tell'd 'er mysen, Sa I kep i' my chair, fur I thowt she was nobbut a-rilin' ma then. An' I says ' I'd be good to tha, Bess, if tha'd ony- waays let ma be good,' But she skelpt ma haafe ower i' the chair, an' screead like a Howl gone wud ^ — 'Ya mun run fur the lether.^ Git oop, if ya're onywaays good for owt.' And I says ' If I beant noawaays — not nowadaays — good fur nowt — Yit I beant sich a Nowt * of all Nowts as 'uU hallus do as 'e's bid.' ' But the stairs is afire,' she said ; then I seed 'er a-cryin', I did. An' she beald ' Ya mun saave little Dick, an' be sharp about it an' all,' Sa I runs to the yard fur a lether, an' sets 'im agean the wall, An' I claums an' I mashes the winder hin, when I gits to the top. But the heat druv hout i' my heyes till I feald my- sen ready to drop. Thy Moother was howdin' the lether, an' tellin' me not to be skeard, ^ The girl was as dirty a slut as ever trudged in the mud, but there is a sense of slatternliness in ' traapes'd ' which is not expressed in ' trudged. ' ^ She half overturned me and shrieked like an owl gone mad. ^ Ladder. * A thoroughly insignificant or worthless person. H 98 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS An' I wasn't afeard, or I thinks leastwaays as I wasn't afeard ; But I couldn't see fur the smoake wheere thou was a-hggin, my lad, An' Roaver was theere i' the chaumber a-yowlin' an' yaupin' like mad ; An' thou was a-bealin' likewise, an' a-squealin', as if tha was bit, An' it wasn't a bite but a burn, fur the merk's ^ o' thy shou'der yit ; Then I call'd out Roa, Roa, Roa, thaw I didn't haafe think as 'e'd 'ear, But 'e coonid thruf the fire wV my bairn ?' 'is mouth to the "winder theere ! He coom'd like a Hangel o' marcy as soon as 'e 'eard 'is naame, Or like tother Hangel i' Scriptur 'at summun seed i' the flaame. When summun 'ed hax'd fur a son, an' 'e promised a son to she. An' Roa was as good as the Hangel i' saavin' a son fur me. Sa I browt tha down, an' I says ' I mun gaw up agean fur Roa.' ' Gaw up agean fur the varmint ?' I tell'd 'er ' Yeas I mun goa.' An' I claumb'd up agean to the winder, an' clemm'd ^ owd Roa by the 'ead, An' 'is 'air coom'd off i' my 'ands an' I taaked 'im at fust fur dead ; Fur 'e smell'd like a herse a-singein', an' seeam'd as blind as a poop, 1 Mark. " Clutched. OWD ROA 95 An' haafe on 'im bare as a bublin'.i I couldn't wakken 'im oop, But I browt 'im down, an' we got to the barn, fur the barn wouldn't burn Wi' the wind blawin' hard tother waay, an' the wind wasn't like to turn. An' / kep a-callin' o' Roa till 'e waggled 'is taail fur a bit, But the cocks kep a-crawin' an' crawin' all night, an' I 'ears 'em yit ; An' the dogs was a-yowlin' all round, and thou was a-squealin' thysen, An' Moother was naggin' an' groanin' an' moanin' an' naggin' agean ; An' I 'eard the bricks an' the baulks ^ rummle down when the roof gev waay. Fur the fire was a-raagin' an' raavin' an' roarin' like judgment daay. Warm enew theere sewer-ly, but the barn was as cowd as owt. An' we cuddled and huddled togither, an' happt ^ wersens oop as we mowt. An' I browt Roa round, but Moother 'ed bean sa soak'd wi' the thaw 'At she cotch'd 'er death o' cowd that night, poor soul, i' the straw. Haafe o' the parish runn'd oop when the rigtree * was tummlin' in — Too laate — but it's all ower now — -hall hower — an' ten year sin ; 1 ' Bubbling,' a young unfledged bird. ^ Beams. ^ Wrapt ourselves. * The beam that runs along the roof of the house just beneath the ridge. loo NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Too laate, tha mun git tha to bed, but I'll coom an' I'll squench the light, Fur we meant 'ev naw moor fires — and soa little Dick, good-night. THE NORTHERN COBBLER Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights 1 to tell. Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 'arty an' well. ' Cast awaay on a disolut land wi' a vartical soon^!' Strange fur to goa fur to think what saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; ' Summat to drink — sa' 'ot ?' I 'a nowt but Adam's wine : What's the 'eat o' this little 'ill-side to the 'eat o' the line ? II 'What's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer?' I'll tell tha. Gin. But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa fur it down to the inn. Naay — fur I be maain-glad, but thaw tha was iver sa dry, Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, an' I'll tell tha why. ^ The vowels ai, pronounced separately though in the closest conjunction, best render the sound of the long i and J* in this dialect. But since such words as craiin , dazin', whai, ai (I), etc. , look awkward except in a page of express phonetics, I have thought it better to leave the simple i and y, and to trust that my readers will give them the broader pronunciation. ^ The 00 short, as in ' wood." THE NORTHERN COBBLER loi III Mea an' thy sister was married, when wur it ? back- end o' June, Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well as a fiddle i' tune r I could fettle and clump owd booots and shoes wi' the best on 'em all. As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' as 'appy as 'art could think. An' then the babby wur bum, and then I taakes to the drink. IV An' I weant gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw I be hafe shaamed on it now. We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could sing a good song at the Plow ; Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd an' hurted my huck,i An' I coom'd neck-an-crop soomtimes slaape down i' the squad an' the muck : An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not hafe ov a man, my lad — Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa mad That Sally she turn'd a tongue-banger,^ an' raated ma, ' Sottin' thy braains Guzzhn' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' hawmin'^ about i' the laanes, Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy 'at to the Squire ;' An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 'im a-gittin' o' fire ; I Hip. " Scold. s Lounging. 102 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hallus as droonk as a king, Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a kite wi' a brokken string. V An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths to keep the wolf fro' the door, Eh but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink the moor, Fur I fun', when 'er back wur tum'd, wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 'id. An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, and I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. VI An' one night I cooms 'oam like a bull gotten loose at a faair. An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'mma, an' cryin' and tearin' 'er 'aair. An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' swear'd as I'd break ivry stick 0' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied our Sally a kick. An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, an' she and the babby beal'd,i Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor a mortal beast o' the feald. VII An' when I waaked i' the mumin' I seead that our Sally went laamed Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur dreadful ashaamed ; An' Sally wur sloomy,^ an' draggle taail'd in an owd turn gown. An' the babby's faace wum't wesh'd an' the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. ^ Bellowed, qried out. " Sluggish, out of spirits. THE NORTHERN COBBLER 103 VIII An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty an' neat an' sweeat, Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower fro' 'ead to feeat : An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thursby thurn ; Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a Sunday at mum, Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a-mountin' cop 'igher an' 'igher, An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e shined like a sparkle o' fire. ' Doesn't tha see 'im,' she axes, ' ftir I can see 'im ?' an' I Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; An' I says ' I mun gie tha a kiss,' an' Sally says ' Noa, thou moant,' But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally says 'doant !' IX An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at fust she wur all in a tew. But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither like birds on a beugh ; An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' Hell-fire an' the loov o' God fur men, An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. X Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like Saatan as fell Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — ^thaw theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; 104 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the wolf fro' the door, All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er as well as afoor. Sa like a great num-cumpus I blubber'd awaay o' the bed — 'Weant niver do it naw moor;' an' Sally loookt up an' she said, ' I'll upowd iti tha weant ; thou'rt like the rest o' the men, Thou'll goa sniffin' about the tap till tha does it agean. Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I knaws, as knaws tha sa well, That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im tha'U foUer 'im slick into Hell.' XII ' Naay,' says I, 'fur I weant goa sniffin' about the tap.' ' Weant tha ?' she says, an' mysen I thowt i' mysen ' mayhap.' 'Noa:' an' I started awaay like a shot, an' down to the Hinn, An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' theer, yon big black bottle o' gin. XIII ' That caps owt, ^ says Sally, an' saw she begins to cry, But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says to 'er, ' Sally,' says I, ' Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord an' the power ov 'is Graace, ' I'll uphold it. ^ That's beyond everything. THE NORTHERN COBBLER lOS Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loobk my hennemy strait i' the faace, Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, ^n' let ma loook at 'im then, 'E seeams naw moor nor waiter, an' 'e's the Divil's oan sen.' XIV An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do naw work an' all, Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl, But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' sattled 'ersen o' my knee, An' coaxd an' coodled me oop till agean I feel'd mysen free. XV An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foalk stood a- gawmin'i in. As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd istead of a quart o' gin ; An' some on 'em said it wur watter — an' I wur chousin' the wife. Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur it nobbut to saave my life ; An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 'is airm, an' 'e shaws it to me, ' Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw this upo' watter!' says he. An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just as candles was lit, • ' Thou moant do it,' he says, ' tha mun break 'im off bit by bit.' 'Thou'rt but a Methody-man,' says Parson, and laays down 'is 'at, ' Staring vacantly. io6 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, ' but I respecks tha fur that ;' An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks down fro' the 'AH to see. An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, ' fur I respecks tha,' says 'e ; An' coostom agean draw'd in like a wind fro' far an' wide. And browt me the booots to be cobbled fro' hafe the coontryside. XVI An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall stan to my dying daay ; I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother kind of a waay. Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I keeaps 'im clean an' bright, Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 'im, an' puts 'im back i' the light. XVII Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a quart ? Naw doubt : But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' fowt it out. Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I cared to taaste. But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur I'd feal mysen clean disgraaced. THE NORTHERN COBBLER 107 XVIII An' once I said to the Missis, ' My lass, when I cooms to die, Smash the bottle to smithers, the Divil's in 'im,' said I. But arter I chaanged my mind, an' if Sally be left aloan, I'll hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an' taake 'im afoor the Throan. XIX Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' along the streeat, Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' feat, an' neat, an' sweeat ? Look at the cloaths on 'er back, thebbe ammost spick-span-new. An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a codlin wesh'd i' the dew. XX 'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we be a-goin to dine, Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-puddin'i an' Adam's wine ; But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goa fur it down to the Hinn, Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, noa, not fur Sally's oan kin. ^ A pudding made with the first milk of the cow after calving. io8 NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS 'BREAK, BREAK, BREAK' Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead, Will never come back to me. CROSSING THE BAR 109 CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me ! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam. When that which drew from out the boundless deep Tunjs again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark ! And may there be no sadness of farewell. When I embark ; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. NOTES LYRICS The Brook (p. 5). Coot, a water-bird, common on English streams. Hem, a heron. Bicker, skirmish. Thorp, a village. Fret, wear away. Fairy foreland, tiny promontory. Water-break, the ripple and disturbance caused by the stream breaking against a stone. The Throstle (p. 6). The skilful arrangement of vowel-sounds, and their repeti- tion, wonderfiiUy recall the note of this bird. The Oak (p. 7). The allusion is to the peculiar burnished gold of the young oak-leaves in spring, and to the later autumnal gold which the tree shares with all its companions of the forest which shed their leaves. The Blackbird (p. 8). Espalier, a fruit-tree, trained laterally against a lattice- work of wood. Standard, a tree, allowed to grow upright, as distinguished from the espalier. Black-heart, the cherry, so called. , Jenneting, a particular kind of early apple. NOTES The Dying Swan (p.^ g). Based upon the beautiful old legend that the swan always sings before her death. Marish, marsh. Coronach, wail, or lament. Shaums, a kind of trumpet. Soughing, soft, low sound, as of a very gentle wind. 'The Splendour falls on Castle Walls' (p. ii). Scar, rock. Elfland, fairyland. Song from ' Maud' (p. 14). ' Maud, Maud, Maud, they were crying and calling.' The birds were of course the rooks, the sound of whose peculiar ' caw ' suggested the lady's name to the vivid imagination of the lover. ' Her feet have touch'd the meadows And left the daisies rosy.' An exquisite compliment, and also a literal fact, for the daisy, when pressed down, exposes the under-side of its white corona, which is red-tipped. Early Spring (p. 17). I could not bring myself to omit this exquisite poem, though to appreciate it demands an imaginative sympathy akin to the poet's own, and is hardly for the very young. The thought nmning through it is of course that of earth revivified by spring, by a visitation direct from heaven, whose young messengers, laden with genial sun and rains, brighten everything before them, and spread beauty all around with lavish hand. The poet, watching the new- born glories of the spring, finds memory and hope both awakened by the sight. He is held spellbound for a time, until the ' chuck-chuck ' of the bird (possibly the Sedge- warbler) from some laurel-bush or coppice arouses the poet also to utterance, and he, like the birds, breaks into thank- fulness and joy. NOTES "3 ARTHURIAN POEMS The Lady of Shalott (p. 20). A story, connecting itself througli Lancelot, one of the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, -with the cycle of Arthurian Poems. The title at least seems to have been originally found in an Italian form, La Donna di Scalotta. Some of the incidents reappear in another adventure of Lancelot's, related in Lord Tennyson's first series of Idylls of the King, ' Elaine.' Shalott is, in fact, but a variation upon Astolat, or, as it was sometimes written, Escalot. The key to this wonderful tale of magic, and yet of deep human significance, is to be found perhaps in the lines — ' Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed ; " I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.' The new-bom love for something, for some one, in the wide world from which she has been so long secluded, takes her out of the region of shadows into that of realities. The curse is the anguish of unrequited love. The shock of her disappointment kills her. Camelot, the legendary town in the West Country, where King Arthur held his court. Wold, a down, or open undulating country. Dusk and shiver, darken and ripple. Shallop, a kind of light boat, a skiff. An ambling pad. A pad is a ' path-horse, a roadster ; a safe animal for travellers. Web, anything woven. Greaves, the leg-pieces in a suit of armour. Gemmy bridle, the bridle that glittered with the gems adorning it. Galaxy, the Milky Way. Baldric, a belt. ' Tirra-lirra,' the cheerful song of the bird. ' The lark that tirra-lirra chants.! — Shakspeare. Sir Galahad (p. 25). Another of the poems based upon the Legends of King Arthur's Knights. Galahad was the son of Lancelot and Elaine, and because of his^bsolute purity and righteous- ness had for his special office to travel in search of the ' I 114 NOTES Holy Grail, the cup out of which our Saviour was said to have drunk at His last supper, and which had been preserved, according to tradition, by Joseph of Arimathea, and finally brought into England. It was believed that only to a being of perfect purity of heart and life could be vouchsafed a vision of this sacred object. Galahad accomplished the enterprise. A version of his adventures in the quest may be read in Sir Thomas Malory's compilation of the Arthur- ian Legends. Casques, helmets. Brands, sword-blades — so called from their brightness, as of something burning. Lists, borders or boundaries: the enclosed ground in which the tournament was held. Thrall, slavery, bondage. Mountain-meres, mountain-lakes. Grange, farm-house. Makiana (p. 28). In Shakspeare's comedy of Measure for Measure it appears in the course of the play that the wicked Angelo had been betrothed to a lady named Mariana, and had basely forsaken her when her marriage- dowry was accidentally lost. In her great sorrow she had retired from the world to a lonely farm-house. Out of the following few words of the Duke (Act iii. Scene i), 'There at the moated grange resides this dejected Mariana,' Lord Tennyson has, without further key or clue to the character or situation, elaborated this wonderful landscape as a fitting environment of the grief and weariness of the deserted maiden. PATRIOTIC POEMS The Charge of the Light Brigade (p. 31). The most famous incident of the Crimean War, 1854-55. In September 1854 the English and French armies, from a position near Balaclava, south of Sebastopol, began the siege of that fortress. On the 25th of October the English Light Brigade, in obedience to an order given apparently under some misapprehension of the enemy's position, charged for a mile and a half between two lines of the Russian guns. The Light Brigade rode into the batteries, ' sabring the gunners there,' and finally retreated, only a third of the original six hundred returning alive. NOTES lis The Revenge (p. 33). In the year 1591, Sir Richard Grenville, a Cornish gentle- man, one of the famous band of west-country explorers and adventurers, was appointed vice-admiral of a squadron, under Lord Thomas Howard, despatched to the Azores to intercept a Spanish fleet returning with treasure from the West Indies. Grenville's ship was the Revenge, a vessel of 500 tons, in which Drake had sailed against the Armada three years before. The King of Spain, in reply to this movement, fitted out a powerful fleet and despatched it to the Azores. An Enghsh pinnace that had been watching and following the Spanish fleet brought news to Howard, but only just before the Spanish fleet itself appeared in sight. Lord Howard, having only six Queen's fighting- vessels, as against more than fifty of the enemy, and having a great proportion of his men sick, dechned an engage- ment and stood .out to sea. Grenville, either having mis- taken the enemy for the expected treasure-ships, or being delayed by getting his sick on board, was left behind, and found himself cut off by the Spanish squadron from the rest of his own fleet. He then resolved on the magnificent, if scarcely prudent, design of fighting his way singly through the Spanish lines. The Revenge was captured, and Gren- ville, mortally wounded, was taken on board the Spanish admiral's ship to die. Grenville's action was much criti- cised at the time, and his rashness condemned ; but he was defended also by many others, and among them by his cousin, Sir Walter Raleigh, who two months later published a prose tract, ' A Report of the Truth of the Fight about the Isles of the Azores this last summer betwixt the Revenge and an Armada of the King of Spaine. ' Many of the details of the struggle are taken by Lord Tennyson from this narrative. The Defence of LucKNOvy (p. 39). The most memorable incident of the Indian Mutiny of 1857. The city was besieged by the rebels on the last day of June 1857, and was held by the garrison, under Sir Henry Lawrence, until relieved by Sir Henry Havelock on , the 26th of September. Early in the siege (4th July) Sir Henry Lawrence died from the effects of a shell-wound. A Welcome to Alexandra (p. 45). On the loth of March 1863 the Prince of Wales was married to the Princess Alexandra, eldest daughter of Ii6 NOTES Christian IX. of Denmark. The Princess arrived in Eng- land, and was welcomed with every mark of national rejoicing, on the 7th of the month. NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS Dora (p. 59). When this poem was first published, in 1842, Mr. Tennyson informed his readers that the story was based upon one of the sketches of country life in Miss Mitford's Our Village. The story is there entitled ' Dora Cresswell. ' Tennyson has, however, considerably modified the conclud- ing incidents of the original, as will be seen by comparing the two. The Lord of Burleigh (p. 66). The events related in this poem are historically true. A young maiden of Shropshire, of the name of Sarali Hoggins, was met and wooed by a young man, who passed for a landscape-painter, but who was in fact the Henry Cecil who succeeded in 1794 to the earldom of Exeter. The marriage took place in 1790. Three children were born to them, but the poor mother, oppressed by the burden of an honour 'unto which she was not born,' pined and died, after a married life of only six years. Burleigh, near Stam- ford Town, was the seat of the Cecils. The Day-Dream (p. 71). I have here ventured to take out of its setting (which is in amount very slight) this version of the old fairy tale of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. The poem, as a whole, appeared first in the 1842 edition of Lord Tennyson's poems. Those who have seen Mr. Burne Jones' remarkable series of paintings illustrating the same legend may find it inter- esting to compare (or contrast) the treatment of these two great artists. The Beggar-Maid (p. 77). The legend of King Cophetua and the Beggar-maid is the subject of an old ballad to be found in Percy's Reliques, It is referred to by Shakspeare, among other writers. Thus Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet — ' Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid.' NOTES 117 The Captain (a Legend of the Navy) (p. 77). Possibly suggested by an occurrence in the English fleet in the year 1797, thus told by Mr. Lecky : ' In September, the crew of a frigate called the Hermione, which was quartered in the West Indies, being exasperated by the gross tyranny of the captain, rose in mutiny, murdered their officers, and carried the ship into a Spanish port." Lord Tennyson's version owes, however, little to the above incident beyond the evidence of utter demoralisation in the naval service, which found its climax in the mutiny at the Nore, in the May of that year. The Sailor Boy (p. 80). The scrawl, a species of crab. In the Children's Hospital (p. 81). This deeply touching story is based upon fact, although the doctors and the Hospital Nurse are purely imaginary characters. Oorali, a drug, by which all power of movement is sus- pended in the sutferer during vivisection, although the sensibility to pain is not removed. The Grandmother (p. 85). If any key is required to this poem, it lies in the often- noticed tendency of extreme old age to recall the incidents of long ago more clearly and strongly than those of the present hour, and thus to blend and confuse the two, as here in the case of the old grandam's own children. OWD ROA (Old Rover) (p. 92). Mr. F. T. Palgrave has remarked with perfect truth that the poetry in dialect of William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet, ' easily as it may be mastered,' has barred his lyrics ' from their due place amongst the most varied in subject, the most perfect in form, the purest and sweetest in tone, which our literature contains. ' And the same thing may be said, in a degree, of Lord Tennyson's Lincolnshire poems, which are unaccountably neglected by many readers who, with the most trifling expenditure of time and trouble, might under- stand and enjoy them to the full. I have therefore not hesitated to include two of these in the present collection. ii8 NOTES With the assistance of the glossary provided in foot-notes by Lord Tennyson himself, it should be easy to lose nothing of their mingled pathos and humour. And this holds notably when the poems are read aloud. In the case of all writers in dialect, from Chaucer downwards, words and phrases and constructions perplexing to the eye will often explain themselves at once to the ear. That these poems may thus be made not only intelligible but dehghtful to uncultured audiences, and may even read a moral lesson ' to guilty creatures sitting at a play, ' is proved by an incident which Lord Tennyson has kindly allowed me to quote. A lady who had recited the Northern Cottier at a village entertainment, informed the author that at the point where the reformed cobbler was describing how he first became aware of the disastrous results of his intemperate habits, in the line, * I looOk'd cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 'im a-gittin' o' fire,' the village drunkard, who was among the audience, rose from his seat and left the room, muttering under his breath, * Women knaws too much nowadaays ! ' Break, Break, Break, and Crossing the Bar (pp. io8, log). A period of at least fifty years separates the two poems which, I hope, fittingly conclude this Uttle volume. The former, published originally in 1842, without title or word of explanation at its head, has generally been accepted as an early prompting of that great sorrow in the author's life the full flower and fruit of which was given to the world eight years later in In Memoriam — the death of his friend Arthur Henry Hallam ; although it may have been written, like ' Tears, idle Tears,' with a vague yearning, and with reference to no one person. The longer elegy and the briefer lyric interpret each other. The stately ships sailing up the Bristol Channel to their ' haven under the hill ' re- mind us that ' The Danube to the Severn gave Xhe darken'd heart that beat no more.' The latter poem, too sacred for praise or comment, was written (it is understood) in Lord Tennyson's eighty-first year, on a, day that he journeyed across the Solent, from Aldworth to Farringford. INDEX OF FIRST LINES PACE And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? ....... 85 As thro' the land at eve we went ... 10 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay . 33 Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou ... -39 Birds in the high Hall-garden . . 14 Break, break, break . . . 108 Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? . 2 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea . 19 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow . 15 Half a league, half a league . . . -31 Her arms across her breast she laid 77 He rose at dawn and, fired with hope . 80 He that only rules by terror . . .77 Home they brought her warrior dead . ■ ^3 I COME from haunts of coot and hem . 5 In her ear he whispers gaily . . .66 It was the time when lilies blow . . 64 Live thy Life . . 7 Many, many welcomes . 7 Minnie and Winnie . 3 My good blade carves the casques of men . 25 Naay, noa mander o' use to be callin' 'im Roa, Roa, Roa . 92 I20 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well 8 Once more the Heavenly Powei; 17 On either side the river lie . 20 'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South . 12 Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him before . 8 1 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky \ 48 Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea 45 ' Summer is coming, summer is coming ' 6 Sunset and evening star . . / . 109 Sweet and low, sweet and low . ' 11 Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 69 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean . 12 The plain was grassy, wild and bare 9 The rain had fallen, the Poet arose . i The splendour falls on castle walls . 1 1 The varying year with blade and sheaf 71 Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot 4 Two children in two neighbour villages 15 Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights to tell ....... 100 What does little birdie say ? . . ' 2 When cats run home and light is come 3 When Lazarus left his charnel-cave . 47 With blackest moss the flower-pots . 28 With farmer Allan at the farm abode 59 You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear 50 Printed hy R. & R. Clark, Ediniurgh.