THE MICKLE DREDE Poreeeri ik VERSES: © al , - a) ..2 1 : . , r : ; : eo be “ ar ating, Se THE MICKLE DREDE AND OTHER Maer WRITTEN BY GORDON BOTTOMLEY. PRINTED IN KENDAL BY T. WILSON, Aerio PRESS IN HIGHGATE; 1866. lee oo 4 | We es i Pe - ae Pentel NSUER LHESE. VERSES:;: Page. The Mickle Drede - - =e Dawn by the Firth - - ap OLE The Prey of the Shifting Sands - pets Over Sea - - - 55 22 A Haven by the Sea - - - 25 Two Ballads—I. Ebb Tide - «+ 26 II. Grey Nun’s Pool - 29 The Lonely Tower . “i Pae On the Moor: Haworth - . “20 Cartmel . - 40 An After Word to Le Marte D’ edt - 44 A Little Chaunt of the Three Handmaids of the Sangrail - - - 48 To Camelot - - 50 Arthur the King wenden to his Rest - 53 A Ballade of the ee of the Teas - 959 Inan Orchard” - - 60 Veronica Veronese : - - 62 Dante’s Dream of the Death of Beatrice - The Harbour of Refuge - Chant D’Amour - The True Poet - - Two Sisters - - The Dual Life’ - - Death - - Haworth Church - ‘The Faérie Queene ” To Dante Alighieri - ‘“‘A Multitude of the Heavenly Host ‘‘ Shepherds Abiding in the Field” A Carol for Christmas The Foolish Virgins - A Mad Maid’s Song Promise of Fruit A Ring-Dove Song John Keats - - “The Earthly Paradise”’ ‘A Dream of John Ball” For a Grave on the Moor Sister to Sister Watchers . . Tothe Reader - - Doe oMICKELR DREDE. Concerning the unfaith of a King to a young damozel, and the things that ensued therefrom. GRIM stake stood outside the town The flame’s betrothed to stay, For a dame o’ the Queen’s and a Church- damned witch : Was to burn that Lammas day. She had cast by spells and magic black To work the death of the King, To make him pine and waste and rot, A snow-flecked, leprous thing, But her sister went, and told him all, The other’s lands to earn, E B And they sorely racked her white body Or ever they let her burn. The red dawn shot with a watery glare Across the face of the sky As from her prison dark and chill They led her forth to die. With a band of steel about her waist They clasped her to the stake: She cried ‘“‘I would I had slain the King For my dear, dead daughter’s sake.” As he rode that morn to a woodland chase He stopped by the blazing pile And, gibing, said ‘‘ Thou art soon from thy bed, Enchantress unclean and vile. ‘‘Thou core o’ the fire, the pain is dire That thrills in thy scorched breasts’ swell, But ’tis light to the sting of thy soul’s sad meed That flames in the midmost Hell.” > ‘There is no flame in Hell; ’”’ she said ‘“‘ Hell is cold as thy heart is cold 2 And black as thy crafty heart is black With monstrous sins undoled, As though the wind of a sullen frost Shrilled through its dismal fold, ‘“‘ For Love has no abiding there ; Such is the Lord’s decree— Come quickly, King, thou hast earned a place In its loveless life and dree. “Its iron gates are gaping wide, But nought will I step therein Until I have thee by the hand That thou mayst speak for our sin. ‘“‘T have fallen to set thee a fitting doom For the death of my lovesome may ; She was killed by the burden of the wrong That she did beneath thy sway : ‘“ Fretting, she slowly sickened and sank With the shame of her one ill deed ; I saw her life’s flood dwindle and fail, But she took little heed. 3 ‘¢ As a breeze-breath stirs the serried flags In the shoals of a green-masked mere Her fingers swept her lute’s thin strings ; Each note felt like a tear: ‘‘Then she clanged the tender strings till they cracked ; Their notes fell like the throng Of heavy drops in a thunder-shower And she sang this mournful song— “<*T have culled the frurt of the Knowledge Tree And the grief that it yields I know!’...... Aye, she lay and munched that bitter fruit Till her heart-strings brast like the strings of her lute, Tense-plucked to that song of woe. ‘“‘ Her smile was sweet as a new-done sin Ere thought begins to rise And sad as the shade of hope in Hell When the soul went out from her eyes. 4 ‘“‘T laid her away in a seemly tomb, And there the body bides With the half-born child of thy pitilessness All dead between its sides. ‘“‘Tn the night new-passed, of my nights the last, I saw midst a mist of light Her shape, moon-splendid, within my cell, In Heavenly birth-weed dight : ‘“‘ She spake ‘ The sands in thy glass of earth Are few, and their way is wide; I may not speak of thy after-life, But thy death-night side by side ‘““* We shall meet the King, and thy foiled revenge Shall be as a finished book.’ King, didst thou hear ? it is no hie, And this very night thou mayst look ...!” The flame-flowers yearned till they kissed her mouth With the kiss of a fair-faced hate, Q While anon a pine-brand burst with a noise Like the finger-snap of Fate ; He loudly laughed and rode away ; They wreathed above her head, Enfolding her body shrunken and black In a streaming shroud of red. Her spirit passed beyond all space ; God took her down-cast hand ; She shuddered, wonder-dazed, and said ‘‘T do not understand— ‘For I have sinned; how then can I live Thy white, clean Heaven within?” He said ‘‘ Thy love was very great ; As the sun makes nought the night’s pale mate, So it has dimmed thy sin.” ‘* But see, I have no fit attire ; Send me to Hell, O God!” ‘‘ Look.” Then she saw that woofs of sheen Her stoled, her veiled, her shod. 6 A stir was heard as of wind-swirled leaves, And lo, in the ether bright There stood her daughter, like herself In Heavenly birth-weed dight. God said ‘‘ The King is yours this eve To suffer your vengeance meet: I have pardoned ye, now do to him The thing ye hold most sweet.” ’Twas late that night and the King still rode, In a valley deep and bare ; He had strayed from his ’wildered company, Who sought him with anxious care. The night-wind rushed through the yielding tops Of the firs on the gaunt hill-side With a sound like the sound of a storm-swept sea That runs with a rising tide ; The corpse-wan moon was swathed in a cloud Dead-black like a bier cloth, 7 As though it would hide in the dire mid night From the dead dame’s tryst of wrath. While he slowly fared on his unknown way He thought of the witch’s word And shrank with a new-born, nameless fear If a new, strange sound he heard, Were it only the click of a hoof-struck stone Or the hoot of the night’s quaint bird. Then in the darkness he seemed to see A mist-made woman go At his either side, with each a hand Upon his saddle-bow. He thought that fear had filmed his eyes, When a voice like a half-spent sigh Said “‘ King, thou hadst my girlish trust And I bent me to thy boundless lust, That wrought me misery. ‘‘ Hast thou no care for thy evil deeds, No dole for my early death ?”’ 8 Then the other spake with a little voice As still as a soft-drawn breath, ‘Though the gates of Hell are gaping wide Nought shall I step therein ; I have stood before the beautiful God, Who has blaunched my scarlet sin. ‘“‘ He has said that we may ride with thee Till our foiled revenge is sped: Know then, O King, that its name is Love From the sprites of the lately dead!” His fear sank like a sun-quelled haze ; ‘IT too have sinned ”’ he said. As he spake the cloud wraiths seemed to fade ; He sprang to stay their flight, But, touching nothing, swerved and fell From his horse in deadly plight. Both God and Hell were looking on And saw the soul from him twine ; Then all Hell laughed ‘‘ To us, little soul!” But God said ‘‘ He is Mine.” 9 The eye of the moody night unclosed Ere it set behind the trees, And showed on the dead King’s upturned face A smile like a kiss of peace. IO DAWN BY THE FIRTH. WANHILD stepped forth from her father’s steading The corn was kmt into goodly sheaves And fared to the fields in the moonlight treading While a low wind crooned in the aspens’ leaves. She bosomed herself in the dreaming corn, The corn that was kmit into goodly sheaves : It dreamed through the night till the busy morn, While the low wind crooned in the aspens’ leaves. Long, long she looked where the great firth widened Not far from that acre of goodly sheaves With violet eyes which tearfully brightened, While the low wind sighed in the aspens’ leaves. aia 8 ‘My love in his dromond sailed over the bar When the corn was knit into goodly sheaves, To win for me silken wedding-gear, And we heard not the boding wind in the leaves. ‘“‘ Since then ’tis many a year-long day ” The corn-blumes rustled above the sheaves ‘“‘ But he never returns, though I watch alway ” And the sad wind sobbed in the aspens’ leaves. Then she sank to sleep with the tears on her face That was shaded by the drooping sheaves, And ever the grey dawn came apace, While the faint wind slept in the weary leaves. It seemed a hopeless dawn enow, Far away stretched the goodly sheaves Till the East breathed out a tender glow While the moon yet laundered the aspens’ leaves. The song of a lark awakened her Gently waved the tips o’ the sheaves To the sight of a dromond crossing the bar As the wind awoke in the aspens’ leaves. I2 It furrowed up the weltering lane (She rose like a slim stalk from the sheaves) That was crimsoned by the sun-birth’s stain, And the wind upturned the aspens’ leaves. Its keel was beached on the meadowy strand Near the ending rows of the goodly sheaves ; In sooth ’twas her lover who leaped aland While the wind swept through the trembling leaves. A man and a maid in a kind embrace The corn was kuit into goodly sheaves And the joyous dawning shone in her face While the light wind sang in the aspens’ leaves. “ Loosen and shower thy hair among mine;” Golden grain-tresses stooped over the sheaves “ Its crystal gold round our twin necks twine.” With the laughing wind in the aspens’ leaves. Midst eddying hair, to her father’s steading (Through the auburn aisles of the goodly sheaves) Deep-raptured they went, in the sunlight tread- ing, While the sweet wind kissed the aspens’ leaves. 13 THE PREY OF THE SHIFTING Sani ‘COMEWHAT cleaves the salt sea-air With a panting, throbbing swish! ” “ Aye, ’tis a ravenous hoodie-crow That scents a dead man’s flesh.” Telis the tale of fearsome things that happened the night afore. When the lithe sea flows at the mirk nud night Strange shapes of dead folk come Where its thin lip scars a shifting beach With a line of leprous foam ; They walk such sands at the mirk mid night, Those who have passed v’ the year, Awaiting their weird of Heaven or Hell With something of human fear. 14 Fierce, eldritch pines were tossing their arms, Their blasted arms and grey, O’er the wind-swept, stony heath that sinks To the shores of the Dolorous Bay. As the brow of a man is seamed by hate, The changeful, changeless deep Was ranged by a merciless Northerly gale In long-swung waves and steep ; It soon dispersed a scent of fog That had thickened upon the plain ; Like a wild swan shaking its stream-wet wings It flung afar storm-heraldings, Fine, feathery gusts of rain. Along a track like a torrent bed That runs toward the sea Strode a damoiseau in raven weed Holding a sprig of rosemary, Memorial rosemary. “* T seek the hithe of the bodiless folk (For there will my dead love come), T5 Where the seas’s lip scars a shifting beach With a line of leprous foam. ‘“‘ The sky is black, for the drifting rack Gives never a hint of moon, And yet ’tis but an hour agone That the wet and tawny sand-stretch shone In the light of a plenilune. ‘‘ Faint, flickering spires of flame appear, Like star-shine on waters suave, A flickering light, or red or white, Cresting each whirl-poised wave. ‘‘ The wind is blowing for rain to-night, Making a word-like moan— ‘Woe, woe to the souls of the blood-red flames!’ (It says in an undertone) ‘On earth they were flushed with that tinge of Hell!’ (To a shriek its voice has grown.) ‘They spit and flash as the breakers crash On the trembling, treacherous sands, 16 But the churned foam flies and knits in the air And lo, a meinie of wraiths is there, With their soul-flames in their hands; “Around their flagging, trailing feet The writhled mort-cloths fall, The shade whereof in the night is that Of a dead man’s face beneath a pall, A dull, half-lifted pall ; ‘“‘ The flaw-blasts shear not their rippling swirls, And dimly can I see, Through spirit and woof dreamily grey, The surf shake doubtfally.”’ On, on they passed, like a frosty breath ; The gear of the foremost forms Was soaked and discoloured with corpse-water, And some was riddled of worms. The storm-wind veered and dropped, but yet, With fluctuant, flexile sway, Those mystic, misty winding-sheets Fluttered across the bay. 17 C On, on they passed, from first to last, But the last he feebly saw Was tightly wrapped in new grave-clothes, A bandage clenching its jaw; The bandage clipped a narrow chin, A cowl hung out from the head : He crossed a space of wet sea-wrack With weak, uncertain tread, The wrack-balls bursting beneath his feet ; ‘O burd Alys!” he said ‘Fain, fain, from the side of thy new-filled grave Have I sped as I best might To this dreaded bourn of the stricken of Death For the tryst of thy life’s last night.” On, on she passed nor turned at his voice ; In vain did he beseech, So he wildly followed her lessening shade Till he stood on the shifting beach. It gripped his feet ; it gripped his knees; It made his bone-pith grue 18 As inch by crawling, slimy inch His helpless corpse it drew ; It licked his throat, it licked his mouth Like the tongue of a cruel beast, And still, far off, ghost-graithings flapped In a spirit-gale fro’ the East. Then the labouring, ominous clouds To a sheer, cool moon gave birth, And he saw once more the race o’ the sea And the gorse-gold bents of earth ; The sand-grout quivered beneath his eyes As he wept for the joy o’ the earth: (That calm, slow-shining face looked down On his soul’s and body’s pain And danced in his sight with a blear halo Of vaporous wreaths of rain) In the inmost gloom of its sterile womb, Beset by memories, For a life-long moment he strove for life, ~ With moons in his palsied eyes. 19 When the corpse-cold peace of a sheltered pool Is shattered, then ring on ring Is launched across its waveless waste, Weaker in widening, Until it falls asleep again, A deathly looking thing, And so the sands above his head Shuddered and then were still, But his breath oozed through and a livid flame Burnt there with a hovering thrill ; His wraith rose thence and, the flame in hand, With sunken jaw, stark-eyed, Paced in the wake of the vanishing train, By the line of the sinuous tide. It walks those sands at the mirk mid might With the folk who have died 1’ the year And await their weird of Heaven or Hell With something of human fear, But, when their death-year 1s overpast, Swayed by the Future-Norn, 20 They will leave the place of the shifting strands For the lives they have shaped with their earthly hands, Within the keel of the new year’s morn, A strange-hued new year’s morn. 21 GMA E» Shek ETWEEN the wind and water A ship of lazuli Sails like part of the laughter Of the rippling, lilting sea. Out toward the sun-gate The joyous shipmen steer, For the isle which is the one gate To the life of love sincere. Between the wind and water Amidmost of that isle A sea-king’s budding daughter Has dwelt for many a while. Nought of anger or teen Or ought which is unkind 22 Can breathe in that isle between The water and the wind. Thither the Norns had brought her, Far from the kindreds’ ken, For the kind god-folk had fraught her With love for the whole of men. World-lovely the dear gods wrought her, So every dame espies The shape of the sea-king’s daughter Deep down in her lover’s eyes, And men who in their dreaming Behold a perfect face Find all its glamour teeming In that sea-damzel’s grace. By day and night slim maidens Attend her circlewise And sing a varying cadence Of the light in young love’s eyes. 23 O silk-soft hair and shoulder And little change thereof, For how can folk grow older In the Isle of the Youth of Love? Then out toward the sun-gate, Ye joyous shipmen, steer, For the land which is the one gate To the life of love sincere. 24 AenAy EN bY PAE SEA. A KEEN wind swithers up the street, Wet with swirling, scurrying sleet, Past where the land and the water meet On a sullen, rocky shore; It whips the spin-drift far and wide, The tossing hair of the madding tide Rent by that whirl-blast frore. The sleet dirls on the window-pane And the salt ooze crusts thereon ; the strain Of the wind on the door-boards sounds amain, But the fire burns clear within, Where the carlines crouch by the flame-filled hearth That is heaped with the spoil of the hazel-garth And croon as they drowsily spin, 25 “The sucking child ts warm at the breast And warm in the ingle-lee, But the man who gat tt is cold on the breast Of a leaping, twisting sea, For there’s never a wight in the town this mght And never a boat at the quay.” Like the Autumn dance of a withered leaf The yawning bell on the sunken reef Is hurled aloft as the billows heave, And clangs like the pulse o’ the sea, The pulse o’ the wind and the sea, While the surf beats out an answering boom Like a knell from a cavern beneath the spume, Muffled and moodily. There’s never a wight in the town save one, The priest of the church on the seamost dune, Who prays therein by lights stream-blown From the draught through a shattered pane; Where, as those guttering tapers fail, The carven saints seem stiff and pale, 20 Cling-swathed by their stoles, through a chill mist-veil, Like the shapes of drownéd men. At last the day springs wildly sweet, But dreadful women slip down the street To the place where land and water meet On a sullen, rocky shore ; Where the long, hard grind of a striking keel Is heard above the wind’s wail shrill And the plangent billows’ roar. 27 TWO. BALLADS. Lee BB eT DE. ve fete salt on your ashen lips, lady, And salt in your windy hair ; From your kirtle’s hem to your girdlestead It fouls the sendal fair : ‘“‘ The sendal fair is dripping-wet, Its crimson is turned to grey.” ‘Once it was hued like my light heart’s blood, But that, I swear by God His rood, Turns grey in my veins to-day. “°Tis the salt o’ the sea that dulls my gear (Fit sign of joyaunce fled) But the salt of tears that fades my blood, Of the tears I cannot shed. 28 “The salt in my back-blown, streaming hair The wind shall winnow away, But its pallid, lifeless hue shall creep Through my tresses golden-gay (From my blood to my tresses gay) And my oft-kissed lips shall shrivel and crack With the blight of a sundered fay. “T caught his hand o’er the creaking gunwale ; The oar-sweeps bruised my side ; I went till my feet lost hold on the sand And my waist was wet in the tide; ‘* But I won no word from his muttering mouth, No glance from his shifting eyes ...... Nay, touch me not—your pity is vain ; God’s mother has pity for my pain ; In her house my succour lies.”’ Ei GrGPave Wee OG) ic: Dull and dark is the fenny moorland, Dull is the withering day, For smoky and smouldering seems the sun “9 That dips into dimness far away, Far and far away. The mist creeps up and the mist creeps on From the lifeless, livid pool; Over its edge and beyond its edge, Clinging and clammy and cool. Now what is this that, moving, seems A shadow cast thereon ? Is it a wimpled woman’s form With the face of a voiceless moan, Or a shifting denseness of the mist ?— The mist from the pool has gone. Now what is this that floats at rest ? A water-lily pale ? Nay; through the darkness slowly dawn Grey robes and a sodden veil, And locks like tangled water-weed About a sad face sail. A hurried whisper of soft grey skirts, A ripple that gurgled and spread, 30 Perchance a sigh for a parting breath, And the grey nun sank and was dead. Her nun’s gear floats her to earth again, But it shall not bring her to Heaven: God’s mother’s pity was numbed in her, So evermore with her sagging care Her soul shall be burdened and riven, 31 THE LONELY: LOM IGE: T stands in a rising, windy valley, A waste diseased and dull, Where no bird ever comes anear Save the wretched, screaming gull ; Its windows are shapeless and empty and dark, Like the eyeholes of a skull. In that drear dale, the summer through, None ever sees the sun, For densely laden with heavy vapours The lift is livid and dun, And wearily seems to settle and sink, Like reek on a foggy town. A spindle-tree grows near the hearth, Where the house-queens spun in a ring, 32 And over the fallen dais a tangle Of briars is wandering, Pranked with shrivelled, nodding hips That purple toward the Spring. Afar, from the top of its sinking walls Streaked yellow and black by smoke, Is slowly seen a mist-met sea Which the wildest wind ne’er woke Up from its oily, leaden wash, Where foam-tips never broke, To the clash and crash of bickering billows: When this would creep anigh To land, it shrinks at a mile-long marish Grey with salt blown dry, Fretted with clear-edged brackish pools That mirror an ashen sky. The weight of the passive years upon it Presses it to the ground: Within its hollow, rafterless halls By the cracking roof-tree crowned 33 Although the film-winged bats are flitting, Their cry they never sound, But sullenly hang like a cloud of dread O’er the dusky silences : The folk of the stony lands about Have a heavy fear of these, Holding that subtle evil spirits Breathe in their chill wing-breeze. Once a maiden sought its summit But swooned ere she mounted there, For strange things crept on her hot, dry cheeks, Slight-rustled her tingling hair, While wanton whispers of elvish laughter Swirled down the serpent stair. And ever such whispers of shuddering laughter Haunt the glooming day, And the sobbing voice of a wailing woman Creeps through the tower grey, Of the woman who flows through its turbid shadows, Whose face is hidden alway. 34 Through wind-rent rifts in the evening mist Its wavering shape is seen By chance wayfarers up the vale; In the doubtful, varying sheen A moth-faint woman tosses her arms— Then the white mist rolls between. 30 ON THE MOOR: HAWORTH. fA\HE heather’s bloom seems but a dim-hued haze Midst half seen hollows of the lonely moor, But on thwart slopes the ebbing sun’s last rays Still strike to purple this, the light-tide’s shore. A solitary shepherd, staff in hand, Outlined against the sea of fading flame, Calls to his dog to seek the wandering band ; His harsh voice, dwelling on the creature’s name, Rings almost sweetly from yon distant hill— “Far away out! Go farther out !”’ he cries ; The sound speeds with a pleasant, curious thrill Throughout the evening hush and slowly dies. 36 Across the dulling sky a curlew wings, Wailing anon its weary, changeless strain, Until the night her starry kirtle brings And in its hem enwraps the billowy plain. The waters of a many-channelled stream Sound faintly, plashing down some stony steep, As though a woman in a happy dream Sighed rimes to lull an imaged child to sleep. Far through the vale a feverous, seething town Flaunts like a prostitute amid the night, In tawdry pomp, as of her draggled gown, Painted and decked with flaring gusts of light, But here no clamours in such grossness come To rend the evening with their strident strife ; The world is silent as a woman’s womb Pregnant with possibilities of life. To those who humbly sit at Nature’s feet, Listening intently to her murmurings, ari J/ She gives an insight subtle and complete Into the secrecy of common things: The swelling uplands, sweet with summer dew Or in a white and wintry mantle clad, To such yield lessons wonderful and new In the art of Life, and every flitting shade Of cloud-shapes cast across the ample waste Makes, like an altered mood, another scene, Until the moorland seems a jewel chaste And rare, of many facets’ changing sheen. Hither three maidens came and loved it well, Holding such converse with its calmness vast, And still their lives’ works of those day-dreams tell, Deathless, though they were dead in years long passed. Who reads therein may joy in a sublime, Fair-mirrored picturing of Nature’s face And from the limbec of their vanished time Distil the intimate motives of his race. 38 The ambient darkness holds a shadowy sense Of presences unseen, as if their room Of Heaven clasped within its influence The place that filled their lives with its perfume. Wend we away, the night is wearing on And save a wind far-fluttering, faint to cease, That softly soughs its old, slow-sinking moan, There gravely reigns o’er all a perfect peace. 39 CARI MEE: ]F winds may sleep, yet float along The fragrant freshness of the air, Like dead Ophelia river-swung, To wake in wonder otherwhere, Then in this nightfall thus they sleep Adown the valley dim and deep. Amidmost of the restful town Flows either way a winding stream, Soundlessly swirling, lucid, brown ; The motion of an idle dream Is theirs; they bring a cooling balm Into the immemorial calm. Great masses loom where in the sky Faints darkling day’s forgctten blue, 40 Hinting that here the priory Rises o’er dwellings clustering, few, Which shyly glimmer through the gloom Like nuns about a saintly tomb. Moth-like upflits the dove-grey smoke Therefrom, o’er streets which cloister-wise Surround this church by nameless folk, Wan votarists, built: dull centuries Have left their house bereaved and worn, More strangely still, more world-forlorn. Swiftly as swallows downward dart From moss-fringed eaves above the quire Sonorous pealings somewhiles start Out of the louvred belfry-tier, But now a solitary tongue Rings for the quiet evensong. Yes, through these streets now darkly vague, Where night meets travellers like a wall, Cowled brethren oft would fondly lag Ere to some ceremonial AI They went, in worship to intone A drowsy, droning antiphon. In claustral silence they would paint The missal’s marge of vellum wide In glowing hues with Queen and Saint Nor deem that men, well-satisfied, Would rend the bright illuminings To line Genevan gospellings. What if, in quivering ecstasy, They dowered Mary with the eyes Of youthful-loved ones ? Then, shall we Prate of their useless sacrifice, Their scorn of life’s ordained increase ? Nay; rather envy we their peace. For life is good among these hills, The spirit’s increase full and sweet ; And though earth’s bourn the vision fills Upward no barrier we meet, Nor does the lark, whose strength of wing Bounds his supernal carolling. 42 Earth’s bourn the vision fills, and yet, For those too sensitive to light, Even at the rich, subdued sun-set, Earth offers many a rapturous sight ; The varying green of wood and lea, The silver of the far-off sea. Over the stony, treeless fell There slowly mounts a staring moon Which lessens to its pinnacle, Showing beyond the milk-white town The road which wavers white and clear Up the long vale to Windermere, 43 AN AFTER > WORD? 10,.CE MOR DIARTHURE: OF (Si Read H@ ii MALLORY. is a0 HEN England was a single-hearted land And knight and churl loved well these tales of old, Slim, golden-snooded damozels oft scanned Stained parchments dight in colours and in gold, And their white odorous bosoms, lightly stoled In silks which showed their shapes, heaved pityingly Whene’er the scroll told some new misery. Of woeful punishments for pleasant sins, Hope and despair, love-life and waimenting, The tournay’s joyous, song-inspiring dins, 44 Hurtling of destriers, lances splintering, And arduous questings for the Holy Thing Alike they read, living each scene again, Glad in its joy and pained by its pain. When all the earth lay silent in the frost, As though it brooded o’er its vanished weed Of leaf and flower and fruit, but lately lost, And past the frost-clear moon thin rack did speed, Hurried by winter winds; taking no heed Of the pale beauty of the drowsy earth, The folk of mountain thorpes in simple mirth Drew round their hearthstones: while each maid and wife With laden rock and busy spindle spun, Far-travelled carles would tell of legends rife In outland towns and, ere their tales were done, Ere Gwennivar or Beale Isoude had won 45 Rest from hot loving, many a maiden’s breast Beneath her coarse blue kirtle had no rest For pity of their sorrows, and the twirl Of spindles faltered as each youth did press The arm or girdle of some comely girl, Filled with compassion for the wretched case Of knight or lady: thus in happiness The evenings passed and love, but newly born, Was fostered by those plaints of love for- lorn. Makers of might have oft these stories told In times gone by which never can return, In times gone by, when men were not acold To others’ joys and griefs, but now men spurn These simple things as newer arts they learn, Deeming that such quaint tales have been © for long The silly croonings of an old wife’s song. 46 As in a jar the rose of yester-year, Though shrivelled, yields a subtle fragrance yet, Raising mist-memories of the summer’s gear, Of close-curled buds with eye-clear dew-drops wet, Of blooms far-blown, like suns about to set, Perchance unto a few these histories Still show dim lights in dead Love’s once- bright eyes ; Unto a few, untouched by lust of gain, Lovers of beauty for the sake of truth, Who hold full dearly that fair dame Ellayne, Mother of Galahad, and have deep ruth On Gwennivar for her ill-ordered youth ; These guide their living by the olden tale, Hoping to see afar the great Sangrail. 47 A LITTLE GCHAUNT OFS TOE ei HANDMAIDS OF THE SANGRAIL. TOGETHER. ITHER come we, haloed maidens, Bearing bread and wine on patens: ONE. White my kirtle, thine is crimson, Cecily’s has orfray hems on, Cecily who bears the wine In a cup with seraphims on: . EACH AND ALL. Carol then, O sisters mine. Both bread and wine are sainéd : Said Lord Christ the good “Take, eat—this is My body, Drink—this is My blood.” 48 Raise the crystal hanap, angels, Its dark burden will not change else To the liquid ruby-clear ; Raise the sacrilegious spear: Uriel, Michael, Gabriél, Sick nuns toll the chapel bell ; Where we bring earth’s blood, come you, Bring God’s blood to make them well (God is in the earth’s blood too.) Uplift the hanap, angels, Or ye do amiss: Thus spake men’s Lord and angels’— “ Drink ye all of this.” 49 E TO CAMELOT. LOWLY the smooth, dim river moved, Seeming half asleep, And wild-fruit blossom snowed on the boat As though the trees would weep. Now this is the song of the dark boatman Who rowed the dead Ellayne In that stately barge up the soundless stream To Launcelot again. “TI wear o’er the Grimwood water With my lief lord’s dead daughter ; She rests upon this sable bier And though I speak she will not hear, But still her hair purls past her cheek In glistening masses, fine and sleek, 50 Then rests upon her bosom’s snow In one clear, golden overflow ; Its radiance, soon to fade, alas, Makes her gold fillet seem but brass. Where lilies once and roses met Within her face is coldly set In a white, wistful, dreamy look : Her eyes, whose light Love’s wing-wind shook As the sighing air thrills a sunlit brook, Are hidden; only their faint lashés Stir gently in the kissing breeze. Her silken gown is deftly wrought With wild-rose and forget-me-not, But its long, still folds are as carver’s ware Hewn for some queenly sepulchre, For she is lifeless though so fair. With love of a mighty lord, ’tis said, Her white heart brake and her white soul fled, So I wend to bring her goodlihead To him that he may see her dead,”’ 51 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS And this is the dirge that the dark boatman Crooned for la Blaunch Ellayne As he rowed her up that soundless stream To Launcelot again. 52 ARTHUR THE KING WENDETH TO Tiss Hol. | ae sun had vanished, but in the sky There lingered a rose-tinged ashen dye Like fallen roses that withering lie In the grass of a garden close, And like a bell did the North wind boom As if a bell in the forest’s gloom Lifted its mouth to sing of doom Where the grave-stones rise in rows. Adown the mere a swarthy ship, Kissed by many a smooth wave’s lip, Sluggishly swam, with heave and dip, Black was its swollen sail; 33 Within its wide womb damzels stood, Quiring to viols of carven wood, In raven robes and each for hood Had a wind-tossed raven veil, While dight in dole-weeds, fold on fold, Sable-girdled and sable-stoled, Sable-amiced, with crowns of gold Three queens sat in its prow; The soft-woofed sendal draperies Clung about their breasts and knees As thin mists cling to willow trees When Autumn evenings grow, The damzels sang to rote and croud “Ts it a sail or a winding shroud That like Death’s ruthless wing is bowed Over our mournful boat ? ‘“* With golden tresses or silvered hair, Alike we watl a common care, For Death we know not and Life is fair.” Thus ran the cheerless note. 24 At last they neared the water’s edge, Where wavelets wapped in a fringe of sedge, The grim barque cleaving like a wedge That tender, swaying green. As pensive lilies aspire, full fain To meet the incense-wocing rain, The queens arose when on the plain A heben knight was seen, And stepped ashore at his beckoning, But, blaunched, with faint feet faltering, They soon returned, in their arms the King Swooning from grievous hurts, While, as they moved, there trailed behind An orris-fragrance in the wind, The sighing lapse of silken-lined, Long-drawn, slow-swinging skirts, As though sweet-smelling waters fell Into a basin like a bell, Whispering a simple knell For short-lived pleasaunce flowers: 09 They brought him to the vessel’s side And raised him in, but he had died Ere, oar-sped, they began to glide Over their former course. On a dark-hued sleeve his head did rest, His feet lay close to a virgin breast, And a throbbing heart to his side was pressed, So that his body shook, But his limbs were pale and chill like those Of an ivory Christ that dimly shows On the rood, where many a candle glows, Through censers’ heavy smoke. The quiristers ceased ; on their faces fair Stood tears of passing great despair, And they shrieked as they came to that island where The mould his form should cloak. 56 Ae bALLADE. “OF sTHE .GOMING) OF THE. SPRING, Clothed in a conceit of an Aubade to my lady at her chamber-window. In the arising of my lady an allegory of the advent of the Spring ts intended, even as Messer Botticelit hath wrought, in his picture of ‘‘ Primavera”’, the advent of the Spring in the guise of a beautiful stately woman. f{\HE silent air is tremulous With song from a soft-throated quire Of culvers gently amorous; The sky is like a great sapphire: O damozel of my desire, Put off that gear of linen bright ; Descend and touch to something higher The morn’s new sense of rare delight. 37 Flower-wreathed, with raiment floating loose, Like Lady Flora, of grace entire, Come from thy round, twelve-pillared house, While, ringing from my simple lyre, Slight cadences of quivering wire Herald thy ever welcome sight ; Come, with a deeper joy inspire The morn’s new sense of rare delight. Let the blithe wind thy tresses toss (The wind that waxes ever shyer Among the trees) and waft across This lawn the blooms that deck thy tire, And, while their falling petals gyre, Will I, thy lover, hail the sprite Within thine eyes the central fire Of Spring’s new sense of rare delight. THE Envoy. Sweet queen, do on thy clear attire, Like lily-buds, green seamed with white, And come to me, for I aspire To Spring’s new sense of rare delight, 58 Now in this ballade ave many things symbolized. For instance, by my lady’s linen night-gear I mean the white weed of Winter, and when I ask her to doff that gear and to don her pied kirile, I signify the change from the bleakness of Winter to the fine hues of Spring. 99 IN AN ORCHARD. eae errant twigs of the apple trees Were dight with much bloom full-blown ; Now hither, now thither, like stars it shone As the branches swayed in the Spring-tide breeze That blew with a merry moan; ’T was rose-tinged and white as the winsome lass Who lay on the petal-strewn, dasied grass, With the green of the leaves aboon. She lay limb-length on the orchard sward Bewitched by the song of the boughs ; Her wheat-red tresses streamed aloose In a joyous aureole and barred The blades into streak-thin rows; 60 A soundless harmony, gold and green, With the petals her glamouring hair be- tween, Made supple by gracious dews. She rose and went from the orchard garth; The world seemed a monotone, For the grass-grown, petal-strewn, daisied earth Was all alone. 61 VERONICA VERONESE. A picture by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. ILVER strings and crystal songs, Lute and lark, lark and lute, Music calling music forth, Music making music mute; Silver strings are little worth When the lark his note prolongs; Mute! O lute. Flesh lives only from the spirit, Soul and hand, hand and soul: Though she touch her loved lute’s strings Ne’er so well, its music’s roll Sinks when even a caged lark sings ; Hand-wrought sound-webs have no merit While her lark rimes like a whole, Song-filled soul. 62 DANTE’S DREAM OF THE DEATH OF BEATRICE. A picture by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. ** Incipit vita nova’’ Dante wrote, But thus his young life shadowed to its end, And though that newer life should soon amend Death’s severance of unknown flesh, yet nought Such bitterness of spirit e’er had brought To him as that fair vision did: to wend With pure and grave-eyed Love but to attend Upon her loveless leavings him distraught. Two gracious damzels raised the flower-sprent pall, That flame-garbed Love her pallid brow might kiss ; The dull-red poppies strewn upon the floor Effused a drowsy power which swayéd all; Love led him then to look upon once more The radiance that had once been Beatrice. 63 THE HARBOUR OF REFUGE. A Picture by Frederick Walker, A.R.A. MoaR RS to evening falls in Life’s short day, And, in this setting’s dimness roseate, Age, burdenless, thinks on inpending Fate, And glides with gladness on that ending way : Unheeding Youth, curbing its footsteps gay To aid the steps of one who feeble gait Thus leads her to her rest, likes not this state Of listless change: this thing Youth’s heart doth say. Rathe Manhood scythe to scythe with Time swift-paced Strives eagerly, but all in vain; he yearns For love’s high fulness ; then he slowly learns That ripeness sinks to age ere he can taste Half of his heart’s desires; life seems a waste; But age to gracious, endless youth returns. 64 CHANT D’AMOUR. A Picture by Sir Edward Burne-Jones. Noor LY these lovers hold speechless, sweet commune: The passion of love makes light his thought- ful eyes With flame like that of lustral sacrifice ; In delicate embroideries a tune, Quivering and low, like mavis-lays far-blown, Slips from her organ; as the notes arise, A progress of mellifluous melodies, Her love speaks to him, chastened as his own. The great lord Love, with calm compassionate- ness, Inspires the breath that thrills the pipes to song, Whence comes that singing’s arduous perfect- ness. To these their mutual presence is enough ; Their souls unite, they need no fleshly tongue, Loying within the very sphere of Love. 65 F UHLES hRU BAP OTC LTHOUGH the haunting fairness of the earth Thrills with deep-surging passions of delight Full many hearts, that clear and inward sight Whereby those wonders bring new thoughts to birth Is held by few, while many minds in dearth Of vision-strength behold them vaguely slight, As if they saw a crystal statue dight In coarse-wrought, soil-stained cloths of paltry worth. Within the temple of the Jews a veil Concealed the holiest place from vulgar eyes, And those who seek to know such mysteries But from the faintness of their soul-sight fail Are thus shut out, seeing beyond their pale Bewildering lights, distorted presences. 66 EW Orsls GERS- In an Athenian garden: Cledne sbeaks— ‘1. HE moon dawns: dear Leuconoé, it is good That weseek sleep : come then, to-morrow’s bride, Let us once more our garments lay aside In yon cool chamber fragrant with a flood Of scent from odorous blooms and sandal wood; The saffron robe and cestus there abide Thy nuptial rites, whereto the moments glide, Far holier than any maidenhood. This poppy clinging to thy shimmering hair, Of deep-grained petals andalong, lush stem, Is fair enough, but in its flame-hid core Lies promise of a garden-full of them, And thus thy womb, made fruitful, shall assure Thy grace of love when thou art otherwhere. é 67 THE DUAL INE HILE some fair damozel sees in a stream Her other self, wraith-like in liquid grace, Perchance the mirrored heaven of her face Is shattered, like a shadowy shifting dream, By some slight wind; this earthly life doth seem Some such frail image which its lines doth trace Upon the everlasting for a space, Then is eraséd, as a meteor’s gleam: But still the beauty of the maid is there, Still shine the stars although the meteor fell, And in their vividness they far excel Those transient apparitions of their truth ; Even so we see in earth-life brief yet fair An adumbration of the spirit’s growth. 68 DEATH, A dream and a thought thereon. While sleeping. | Pe a like a maid, came through the gate of horn And seemed to wrap me in her coiling arms As white as shrouds, and straightway all her charms I saw and loved as by her I was borne Throughout her night of nothingness to morn ; Then said she ‘‘ My still chilliness thus warms Those whom I bear, for I seem all the forms Of those earth-loves from whom my spoils are torn.” Whilst waking. The sun, when setting fairly on this land, Dawns fairlier still upon some alien strand, And I, as this world’s shape of me lies dead, Perchance shall sail into the golden West, Within a spirit ship, at Death’s behest, And see, Columbus-like, new worlds ahead. 69 HAWORTH CHURCH. Ape grey, stark church that crowned this barren brow, Beset by tombstones, bare to every breeze, Has gone, though still its tower, worn and low, Glooms out, a beacon to the centuries ; And in its stead this stately fabric stands, With fine-spun traceries and lofty roof, Lacking, amid its splendour wrought of hands, The lowly charm that set the place aloof From the outer world while o’er each vanished wall An old simplicity yet held its sway, Which from the past seemed ever to recall The homelier worship of an earlier day : That artless House outlasts its wood and stone, Living through memories mightier than its own. 79 MASTER EDMUND SPENSER, HIS “ FAERIE QUEENE.” KING once made a subtly mazy bower And set his love therein, to be its heart: Thus she, the Rose o’ the World, was set apart From all the spite and jealousy that lour On love 1’ the world, and hour on joyous hour She dallied there with none her will to thwart, While birds with stream-like song there- through did dart, And fickle bees loved, kissed and left each flower. O King of songsmiths, such is this thy work ; A maze of many mazes, wherein we Who love thee have delight and often lurk With flowers and maids and music pleasantly, While all the world without seems in the mirk Of sordiness and strife and misery. 771i TO MESSER DANTE ALIGHIERI, After reading H. W. Longfellow’s translation of his “‘ Divina Commedia.” l FAIN would read thee in thy Tuscan tongue, For, though thy alien guise be passing fair, I feel that otherwise and otherwhere, Within those notes which thou thyself hast sung, Lies the wan sorrow from thy spirit wrung, Lies the bright gladness which I long to share ; None poet these can render with such care As should bring perfect light thy lines among. Of men not thou alone hast been in Hell, But unto few hath it been likewise given To rise therefrom to the delights of Heaven; Therefore I add my praise of Beatrice, Thy angel love, who rapt thee to that bliss, Whereof it was thy joy in verse to tell, 72 “A MULTITUDE OF THE HEAVENLY ELC) les | es swept throughout the purple depths of night All-glorious angels from the bourn of Heaven, A perfect company, their number seven, And they were seen of shepherds in their flight ; Passing, they were revealed in lam bent light ; Each bore a scarlet lily plucked at even ; The flame-like hair of each was interwoven With golden garlands very fair and bright. They sang and, as the shadow of a song, Their peaceful voices, mingling with the sound Of pleasant instruments and marvellous, Proclaimed the advent of a King, uncrowned On earth, Who, moved by love, was come to us From out His sempiternal angel-throng. 73 “SHEPHERDS ABIDING IN THE rm) BAYS A Mystery for Christmas. A SHEPHERD. | IKE a sainéd candle’s light 4 Upspiring in the windless night, Keen-dazing to our groping sight, Shines out the new-born star ; The frozen dew that hangs fro’ the grass Seems snowdrop-blaunched beneath its rays : Great things shall surely come to pass From such a portent rare. A YOUNG SHEPHERD. In a neglected garden-close A pale, belated lily blows And lo, this thornless, opening rose Against its stem I found, 74 For thereabout a rose-bush twined : ’Tis strange when frosts the brown earth bind Such wonder-goodly blooms to find In that wild posy-ground. And suddenly a glistening youth is standing in the midst of them, saying A lily for Mary The Mother of Christ Who brings Him to keep His lovesome tryst. A rose for Christ Without a thorn; The thorns will come When He is born. Then they see him no more, but an old shepherd comes toward them and speaks— Fellows, within the hillside fold, In its grey walls’ shadow cold, There bides a lamb a moment old— 79 THE YOUNG SHEPHERD. Thorn-buds my rose-stalk clothe. THE FIRST SHEPHERD. A pearl-like, tremulous radiance Soft-shimmers and limpid rainbows glance I’ the East, whence aureoled youths advance With psalms of Sabaéth. ALL THE SHEPHERDS. The beasts kneel like folk worshipping ; We hear in this pure carolling, This ecstasy of glorying. The sun-star’s matin-chaunt. Three kings come riding by. ANOTHER SHEPHERD. Old men, old men, whither do ye wend ? Your weed, wherein rich colours blend With golden threads, is travel-stained— THE KINGS. The star our bourn shall grant. e ¢ ¢ ‘ a t Mary: in a byre of Bethlehem. The surgings of maternity Widen beneath the heart of me; Lord, it is time that I bear Thee ; Thou knowest I will well. Then God, stooping, enters into the world by man’s gate. JOSEPH. Lay Him in the humble cratch, Where the star gleams through the thatch— Behold, an angel keepeth watch— Nowell, Nowell, Nowell ! 77 A °‘GAROLFFORICHRISEMAS: NGELS, angels, What do you sing ? ‘“* Glory in the highest To Christ our King. Mankind is born again To enter into Heaven, For Christ by Mary Virgin’s womb To earth is given.” White mother Mary, Suckle thy Child; Hap Him from the cranny-winds Whistling and wild: All souls’ anguish All and utterly Shall pierce through thine own soul If He should die. Star-bearing angel, So let it shine 78 That it shall bring the nations Before His eyne : For all its splendour, In His diadem Thy star was erst and e’er shall be The meanest gem. Spider, spin a fine web O’er Him all day, Hiding Him from Herod Eager to slay: Mary is a poor maid Gear she may not win ; All the silk that He shall wear Spider shall spin. Good father Joseph, Cherish Him well ; Bear Him into Egypt From traitors fell. Angels, sing your sweet song; Of Jesse’s lily-stem, This wemless maid, The Christ is born In Bethlehem. hg THE FOOLISH VIRGINS. UR lamps were filled at Olive Mount ; Content, we leisurely return ; Five maids are absent from our count— Perchance their lamps have ceased to burn. Hearken, the Bridegroom comes apace With soft-shod, chaunting thurifers ; The clear processional upraise, Nor heed our sisters’ cares. We fling no flowers along Thy path, For flowers spring where Thy white feet fall : Pluck we the gracious aftermath ...... Sleep-heaviness is on us all: We drowse against the outer gate...... The voices sink ; elsewhere they pass. Open the door, we will not wait. The door is barred, alas. 80 Beyond the door that quiring rare Acclaims the Bridegroom and the Bride; Our sisters’ voices mingle there— In outer darkness we abide, For even now our faint lights fail ; With lights the Lord has come and gone. Self-pitying penitents, we wail The heed we gave to none. Sx A MAD MAID’S SONG. HE day had a sunless dawning, The lark forgot to sing— Is this the lark that creeps in the grass, With a trailing, wounded wing ? My tears with the rain are mingled: Of rain and tears I am fain, For all the flowers, all the flowers, Are sweetest after rain. The day has a sunless ending ; The rain will never cease; The other flowers, weary and wrecked, Find sweetness in death’s peace. 82 PROMISE OF FRUIT. AIN of the plum-bloom, rain of the cherry Slightly falls when the wind is weary (Wonder-white are the petals rent) ; Wantonly whirls when the wind is merry, With a faint-filled aura of scent. Pale is the pear tree; pink is the apple Whose silk-fringed buds the grey boughs dapple Over the half-born, hesitant leaves. This is Our Lady Flora’s chapel, Under the fledgling leaves. 83 A RING-DOVE SONG. OFTLY I sing you, sweet, Songs of the swaying tops, Darkly green, of the fir-trees ; Airily light, of the beeches. Here, in the twittering frondage, Sweetly the scent of larch-bloom Over me sweeps in a tide, Breaks on this emerald shore. Softly the branches wave, Soft as I sing to you, sweet. JOHN KEATS. ities name was writ in water thou didst say : That water, bright with riches never told, Was thy life’s stream; when it had lapsed away Thy name stood on its bed the world in gold. 85 WILLIAM MORRIS: HIS “ EARTHLY PAKADISES? YHOSE men of old sailed over sunlit seas, Questing in vain for Eden-Garden’s ease, But we, far happier, find in gracious wise Within their tale our earthly Paradise. 86 ee DREAM? OM TON, BALL BY WILLIAM MORRIS. HER through the portal of a dream Imagination’s moteless beam Shines on a place of happy folk Unburdened by their fellow’s yoke : While noiselessly along the grass The hopeful men and women pass, Unwittingly they wend, I wot, To ‘‘ Lands of Matters Unforgot.” 87 FOR A GRAVE ON THE MOOR, NEAR STANBURY, YORKSHIRE. ALMLY I lie in heat and cold, In the new year, in the old, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust ; Here to live I have no lust. _ Body, rest in the upland bleak ; - Forth I go, old friends to seek. Sing me dirges, grouse and plover, When the moor is painted over With the purple of the heather ; Snow, in windy wintry weather, Lightly press on my body here ; This is its bed from year to year. 88 Siro he BOS bs Te he “(CARCE can I see your golden head, Or the white, square pillow whereon ’tis laid : Make room for me within your bed; ’Tis cold alone, my sister. ‘The frost has pierced me through and through ; The bony arms of the dry trees grue ; The moon and stars seem frozen too: My bed is cold, O sister. ‘“‘ Half numbed, your side I slowly approach ; Your warm flesh shrinks at my cold limbs’ touch— Shrink not from me overmuch, Softly pulsing sister. 89 ‘‘T have been across the meadow-land To the garth where the frost-hoar church doth stand : I plied a spade; on my either hand Swells a mattock-blister. ‘ There’s a hollow grave in that bare church- yard ; The mould a-side is frozen hard: ’Twill be cold beneath the roofing sward, Darling sister. ‘Why have you stolen my love from me? Did you wither my face by sorcery, Then laugh with him at my misery, Wonder-staring sister ? ““T am dark and you are fair ; Thin and raggéd is my hair. ‘One is foul and one is fair’ Said your knight, O sister. ‘‘ See, I hug a little knife, Cold against my hot heart’s strife, go That shall twine you and your life.” The frightened maid has kissed her. ‘“‘ Baby kisses and caresses Shall not heal my hate: time presses— My hand is in your tumbled tresses, My knee in your womb, white sister. ‘‘T draw your glimmering head back, so; The speech-bud gurgles to and fro Within your throat—the blade slips through... (Now the dead-throes twist her.) “Your night-sark makes a bonny shroud, But the neck-band seems a welt of blood ; Cover it with your virgin-snood, Dainty, modest sister. “I smooth your long locks over all, To be a moment’s golden pall— Life lingers in them ; they slide and crawl Away from my fingers, sister. gli ‘Death crushed your breath in his tightening arms ; I wind you in my lean, lithe arms: Your mouth is open, but no alarms Can come thereout, my sister. ‘You are dead-tired—take your rest ; Your tender head ts fitly placed Against a loving sister’s breast ; Your bosom is stilled, dear sister. ‘‘ Creep we darkling down the stair, Whose chill strikes up, for my feet are bare, But ’tis nought of the chill in your feet so fair, Sleepy, silent sister. ‘‘ The middle of the night is past ; Day breathes ; the moon-spy, bloodless-faced, Swoons down the sky: let us make haste To your house, O sister. ‘‘ The stir of wind before the dawn Whispers across the sparkling lawn. ’Tis the churchyard gate I rest you on— I too am tired, sister. 92 “ Dull and sickening is the sound As you thud on your face in the deep-dug ground : huewmould fallson you’... . .-. a well-turfed mound Arches over you, sister. “Do you hide beneath from the dead folk’s lear, As a child creeps under the sheets for fear ? I would your knight were with you there, His arms about you, sister. “ Your warmth is still in your empty bed; I will lay my body where yours was laid. Good night. (She will soon be earth, this maid, As though none ever wist her ..... ) “‘T can feel your blood ooze out of the ground ; My aching feet it trickles round!” Tis the sword-stiff grass that your feet doth wound, O conscience-fearful sister. 93 WATCHERS. AMELOTTE. \ HAT of the night ? O sister, say: Can you see the winding frost-bound way, Or hear the beating of hoofs thereon ? I think your ears are hard as its stone: Nine times do I ask and nine do you turn, But never a word from your lips can J earn, Though dimly your wide eyes smoulder and burn. JEHANE. The black frost holds and the moon is dead ; Underfoot and overhead slack, black, black is the thick night spread. All in the tower are sunken deep Into the hollow dusk of sleep. The murky air is dense with shades, Jet Perchance of self-slain, loverless maids: ’Tis over dark to see even a ghost, But swart hair-sheaves are whirled and tossed To make the night more dark than most. AMELOTTE. Is there any beating of hoofs heard yet ? JEHANE. Simple sister, pine and fret For the lover who never comes, The lover who bides in dream-land homes. Think you any knight could care For Amelotte of the ling long hair, Of the spindle-arms and the sunken cheeks, Like a corpse of seven weeks ? Wot you any who would rest On Amelotte’s yellow and shrivelled breast, Wrinkled and stained like a rotting apple ? AMELOTTE. The priest is waiting in the chapel, That I to my knight may be truly knit, Whose love enlaps me every whit As the white light laps the Saints who sit Along and along God’s banquet hall. 99 Mighty is he of his hands and tall ; No stooping wizard, wizen and old— O me, my heart is very cold: The icy stillness of the chamber Is shaken only when an ember Crackles in cooling or falls on the hearth; The root of the last torch flares in its girth: All seems stiffening into death, Even my breast as I try to breathe. JEHANE. Come to the room of the vermeil door And look into Hell through the hole in the floor. AMELOTTE. —The bell in the night has a deeper tone Than it ever had in the dullest noon.— Up nine steps and down a score; Somewhat aglow creeps on the floor ! JEHANE. ’Tis the light from under the vermeil door.— Your face is grey ’neath the murky cloud O’ your hair upswept on the flame-blast loud, Strange hair that swings up the copper wall, Making its crusted green scales fall, 96 Patter and tinkle as they fall. There lies the hole with Hell below, Square-edged and sharp and sheer I trow, The hollow hole with the copper bars Nailed to the floor with fallen stars, Seven athwart and seven along, Welded together, ruddy and strong ; And now and then a flame licks through, From the ocean of windy flame below That hisses and wails and bellows so. Look at Fehane with upturned face, Warming herself, close to the blaze: Haughtily queenly there she stands, With outstretched arms and outspread hands ; The deep light shows through her fingers thin, And plays on the curves of her throat and chin, The wondrous curves of her throat and chin : Though her face in the shadow is hard to see, Her close lips smile continually, As though far down in dim water Rippling like her scarce-seen hair, Ov all about her the tortured air; ey! But her slow smile’s meaning is hard to tell, As she warms her hands at the fire of Hell. JEHANE. Hold my hand and lean thereover ; Mayhap therein you will see your lover. The fierce light gives to your roses sere The hue of life they have lacked this year. AMELOTTE. My hands are crossed upon my breast, (God once clung to a maiden’s breast, Being a baby on Mary’s breast : ) Dear Lord, hasten my lover’s quest. JEHANE. Think you any one could care For Amelotte of the ling long hair? AMELOTTE: softly. (Hoofs in the courtyard, feet on the stair.) JEHANE. With smooth forefinger dipped in the flame Let me sain you in my lord’s name, Swayer of those who bide below, Whom you watch with eyes of woe. 98 SIR YVAIN. Crafty sister, cruel sister, By despair you sought to tryst her Within the land beneath the floor, But you never shut the vermeil door. AMELOTTE. O healer of sorrow, my sorrow is o’er. He, TOsttHE READE (October 5th, 1896.) Autumn falls quickly on us hereabout ; Wreckage of voses stvews the garden-ground ; Stripped ave the orchards of thew gleaming fruit ; Somewhat of Winter’s wan and weary round Tinges the days, and mournful is the sound Of wind and sea, while ever a mist of rain Hangs in the trees and blurs the window-pane. Now, standing in the twilight of the year, Awaiting its oncoming night of death, Into the darkness slowly creeping near Along the voadway of the desolate heath We look, and linger eve we pass beneath Its heavy languor of sleepy, short-lived days, As tived wayfarers look into the haze I00 Of gloom that gathers for a moonless night, Knowing theiy haven is a far-off land ; Thus lingering, long we for a world more bright, The world of Spring-tide, where on either hand Of every lane the budding hawthorns stand, Waiting to welcome May with bursts of bloom And launch the Summer on seas of deep perfume. There, in the year’s high-tide, will be no need Of wavering fantasies that seem scarce nought, But in dark days mayhappen some will heed The things that never were, the things forgot, Which I to soothe my weariness have wrought : If any praise them, let his praise be paid Unto my master, who is lying dead. As childven in the twilight fashion tales From mighty stories that thew elders love, (Crouching, half-fearful of their own faint spells ) So in song-working I have loved to move Within his wake who had great skill thereof, The weaver of dreamy melodies and strong, Lhe thunderous viking of the ways of song. IOI The vain has slackened slowly, seeming spent ; The valley ts fulfilled of silences All inteviangled and together blent, The silence of dead winds among the trees, The silence where the voof-smoke shires with ease— O silent land, even now one sound 1s thine, The evening lowing of tense-uddeved kine. Coron ree Sioa 9th. Amgush’ 1938. THE END OF THE MICKLE DREDE AND OTHER VERSES; WRITTEN BY GORDON BOTTOMLEY; PRINTED IN KENDAL BY T. 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