  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover THE BY LONDON TO BY THE SAME WRITER URLYN THE HARPER AND OTHER SONG Thanks are due to Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co., for permission to reprint "The King's Death," "The Three Kings," and the first part of "Averlaine and Arkeld," from The Cornhill Magazine; to the editor of Macmillan's Magazine for leave to reprint "In the Valley"; to the editor of The Saturday Review for leave to reprint "Notre Dame de la Belle-VerriÈre"; and to the editors of The Pilot, The Outlook, The Pall Mall Gazette, Country Life, The Week's Survey, and The Broadsheet, for like courtesy with regard to a number of "The Songs of Queen Averlaine." Contents The Torch Through skies blown clear by storm, o'er storm-spent seas, Day kindled pale with promise of full noon Of blue unclouded; no night-weary wind Ruffled the slumberous, heaving deeps to white, Though round the Farne Isles the waves never sink In foamless sleep--about the pillared crags For ever circling with unresting spray. At dawn's first glimmer, from his island-cell-- Rock-hewn, secure from tempest--Oswald came With slow and weary step, white-faced and worn With night-long vigil for storm-perilled souls. His anxious eye with sharp foreboding bright-- He scanned the treacherous flood; the long froth-trail That marks the lurking reefs; the jag-toothed chasms Which, foaming, gape at night beneath the keel-- The mouth of hell to storm-bewildered ships: But no scar-stranded vessel met his glance. Relieved, he drank the glistering calm of morn, With nostril keen and warm lips parted wide; While, gradually, the sun-enkindled air Quickened his pallid cheek with youthful flame, Though lonely years had silvered his dark head, And round his eyes had woven shadow-meshes. Clearly he caught the ever-clamorous cries Of guillemot and puffin from afar, Where, canopied by hovering, white wings, They crowded naked pinnacles of rock. He watched, with eyes of glistening tenderness, The brooding eider--Cuthbert's sacred bird, That bears among the isles his saintly name-- Breast the calm waves; a black, wet-gleaming fin Cleft the blue waters with a foaming jag, Where, close behind the restless herring-herd, With ravening maw of death, the porpoise sped. Oswald, light-tranced, dreamed in the sun awhile; Till, suddenly, as some old sorrow starts, Though years have glided by with soothing lull, The gust of ancient longing rent his bliss: His narrow isle, as by some darkling spell, More narrow shrank; the gulls' unceasing cries Grew still more fretful; and his hermit-life A sea-scourged desolation to him seemed. The holy tree of peace--which he had dreamt Would flourish in the wilderness afresh, Upspringing ever in new ecstasy Of branching beauty and white blooms of truth, Till its star-tangling crest should cleave the sky, And angels rustle through its topmost boughs-- Seemed sapless, rootless. Through his quivering limbs His famine-wasted youth to life upleapt With passionate yearning for humanity: The stir of towns; the jostling of glad throngs; Welcoming faces and warm-clasping hands; Yea, even for the lips and eyes of Love He hungered with keen pangs of old desire: And, if for him these might not be, he craved At least the exultation of swift peril-- The red-foamed riot of delirious strife That rears a bloody crest o'er peaceful shires, And, slaying, in a swirl of slaughter dies. With brow uplifted and strained, pulsing throat, And salt-parched lips out-thrust, unto the sun He stretched beseeching hands, as though he sought To snatch some glittering disaster thence. One moment radiant thus; and then once more His arms dropped listless, and he slowly shrank Within his sea-stained habit, cowering dark Amid the azure blaze of sea and sky. Then, stirring, with impatient step he moved Across the isle to where the rocky shore, Forming a little, crag-encircled bay, Sloped steeply to the level of the sea; But, as he neared the edges of the tide, Startled, he paused, as, marvelling, he saw A woman on the shelving, wet, black rock, Lying, forlorn, among the storm-wrack, white And motionless; still wet, her raiment clung About her limbs, and with her wet, gold hair Green sea-weed tangled. Oswald on her looked Amazed, as one who, in a sea-born trance, Discovers the lone spirit of the storm, Self-spent at last, and sunk in dreamless slumber Within some caverned gloom. Coldly he watched The little waves creep up the glistening rock, And, faltering, slide once more into the deep, As though they feared to waken her: at length, When one, more venturous, about her stole, And moved her heavy hair as if with life, He shuddered; and a lightning-knowledge struck His heart with fear; and in a flash he knew That no sea-phantom couched before him lay, But some frail fellow-creature, tempest-tost, Hung yet in peril on the edge of death, Her weak life slipping from the saving grasp While he delayed. He sprang through plashy weed, O'er slippery ridges, to the rock whereon She lay with upturned face and close-shut eyes-- One hand across her breast, the other dipped Within a shallow pool of emerald water, With blue-veined fingers clutching the red fronds Of frail sea-weed. Then Oswald, bending, felt Upon his cheek the feeble breath that still Fluttered between the pallid, parted lips. In trembling haste, he loosed the sodden cords That bound her to a spar; and with hot hands He chafed her icy limbs, until the glow Of life returned. With fitful quivering The white lids opened; and she looked on him With dull, unwondering eyes whose deep-sea blue The gloom of death's late passing shadowed yet; When suddenly light thrilled them, and bright fear Flashed from their depths, and, with a little gasp, She strove to rise; but Oswald with quick words Calmed her weak terror, and she sank once more, Closing her eyes; and, gently lifting her Within his arms--her gold hair hanging straight And heavy with sea-water, as he plunged Knee-deep through pools of crackling bladder-weed-- He bore her, unresisting, o'er the isle Unto the rock-built shelter he had reared, Some little way apart from his own cell, For storm-stayed fishers or wrecked mariners. He laid her on a bed of withered bents, And ministered to her with gentle hands And ceaseless care; till, wrapped in warm, deep sleep, She sank oblivious. Silently he placed His island-fare beside her on the board, Lest she should wake in need; then, with hushed step, He turned to go; but, ere he reached the door, He paused, and looked again towards the bed, As though he feared his strange sea-guest might flee Like some wild spirit, born of wondering foam, That wins from man the shelter of his breast, Then, on a night of moon-enchanted tides, Leaps with shrill laughter to its native seas, Bearing his soul within its glistening arms, To drown his peace on earth and hope of heaven In cold eternities of lightless deeps. But still in dreamless sleep the stranger lay, With parted lips and breathing soft and calm; About her head unloosed, her hair outshone, Among the grey-green bents, like fine, red gold. So beautiful she was that Oswald, pierced With quivering rapture, dared no longer bide, But, with quick fingers, softly raised the latch, And stumbled o'er the threshold. As he went, A flock of sea-gulls from the bent-thatched roof Rose, querulous, and round him, wheeling, swept, With creaking wings and cold, black eyes agleam; Yet Oswald saw them not, nor heard their cries; Nor saw he, as he paced the eastern crags, How, round the Farnes, the dreaming ocean lay In broad, unshadowed, sapphire ecstasy, That glowed to noon through slow, uncounted hours. His early gloom had vanished; time and space And earth and sea no longer compassed him; One thought alone consumed him--beauty slept Within the shelter of his hermitage, Upon grey, rustling bents, with golden hair. He roamed, unresting, till the copper sun Sank in a steel-grey sea, and earth and sky Were strewn with shadows--wavering and dim-- To weave a pathway for the dawning moon, That she, from night's oblivion, might create With the cold spell of her enchantments old A phantom earth with magical, bright seas, A vaster heaven of unrevealed stars. Unmoving, on a headland of swart crag That jutted gaunt and sharp against the night, Stood Oswald, cowled and silent. Hour by hour He gazed across the sea, which nothing shadowed, Save where--now dim, now white--a lonely sail Hung, restless, o'er a fisher's barren toil. Yet Oswald saw nor sail nor moon nor sea: His heart kept vigil by the little house Wherein the stranger slumbered; and it seemed His life, by some strange power within him stayed, Awaited the unlatching of the door. But now, within the hut, the sleeper dreamt Of foaming caverns and o'erwhelming waters; Then, shuddering awake, awhile she lay, And watched the moonlight, cold and white, which poured Through the warm dusk, from the high window-slit; When, all at once, the strangeness of the room Closed in upon her with bewildering dread. She stirred; the bents, beneath her, rustled strange; She started in affright, and, swaying, stood Within the streaming moonlight, till, at last, In memory, once more disaster swept Over her life, and left her, desolate, Upon bleak crags of alien seas unknown. Yet, through the tumult of tempestuous dark, Above the echo of despairing cries, A calm voice sounded; and beyond the whirl Of foaming death, wherein she caught the gleam Of well-loved faces drowning in cold seas, A living face shone out--a beacon clear: Then numbing fear fell from her, and she moved, Unlatched the door, and stole into the night. One moment, dazzled by the full-moon glare, She paused, a shivering form within the wide And glittering desolation--lone and frail. But Oswald, watchful on the eastern scars, Seeing her, forward came with eager pace To meet her; and, as he drew swiftly near, His cowl fell backward; and she knew again The face that calmed the terrors of her dreams. Yet, with the knowledge, through her being stole, Vague fear more strange, more impotent than the blind Unquestioning dread when death had round her stormed; No peril of the body could arouse Such ecstasy of terror in her soul, Which seemed upborne upon the shivering crest Of some great wave, just curving, ere it crash Upon the crags of time. Yet, though she feared When Oswald paused, uncertain, quick she spake, As though she sought to parry doom with words. She questioned him--scarce heeding his replies-- How she had hither come; when, suddenly, Sped by her fluttering words, the last, dim cloud Rolled from her memory, and she saw revealed Within a pitiless glare of naked light The utmost horror of her desolation. Mute with despair, she stood with parted lips, And then cried fiercely: "Hath the sea upcast None other on this shore? Am I, alone, Of all my kin who sailed in that doomed ship, Flung back to life?" And as, with piteous glance, He answered her: "Ah God, that I, with them, Had died! O traitor cords that held too sure My body to the broken spar of life! O feeble seas, that fumed in such wild wrath, Yet could not quench so frail a thing as I!" With passionate step, across the isle she ran, And leapt from crag to crag, until she stood Upon a dizzy scar that jutted sheer Above low-lapping waves. Then once again Her moaning cry was heard among the Isles: "O bitter waters, give them back to me! You shall not keep them; all your waves of woe Cannot withhold from me those dauntless lives That were my life. Surely they cannot rest Without me; even from your unfathomed graves Surely my love will draw them to my arms!" As though in tremulous expectation tranced, She yearned, with arms outstretched; as dawn arose Exultant from the sea, and with clear rays Kindled her wind-tost hair to streaming flame. Awhile she stood, then, moaning, slowly sank Upon the crag; and Oswald came to her With words of comfort which unloosed her pent And aching woe in swift, tumultuous tears. Oswald, in silent anguish, drew apart, Gazing, unseeing, o'er the dawning waves; Until at last the tempest of her grief, In low and fitful sobbing, spent itself; When, turning to him, once again she spake, And, shuddering, with faltering voice, outpoured The tale of her despair: and Oswald heard How she, who sat thus strangely by his side, Marna, a sea-earl's daughter, had besought Her father, when the old sea-hunger lit His eyes--as waves shot through with stormy fight-- For leave to bear him company but once, When, with his sons, he rode the adventurous seas; How he had yielded with reluctant love; And how, from out the firth of some far strand, Their galley rode, beneath a flaming dawn; How her young heart had leapt to see the sails Unfurled to take the wind, as, one by one, Toil-glistening rowers shipped the dripping oars, And loosened every sheet before the breeze; How, as the ship with timbers all astrain, Leapt to mid-sea, through Marna's body thrilled A kindred rapture, and there came to her The sheer, delirious joy of them true-born To wander with the foam--each creaking cord That tugged the quivering mast unto her singing Of unknown shores and far, enchanted lands, Beyond the blue horizon; how, all day, They rode, undaunted, through the spinning surf; But, as the sun dipped, in the cold, grey tide, The wind, that since the dawn with steady speed Had filled the sails, now came in fitful gusts, Fierce and yet fiercer, till the sullen waves Were lashed to anger, and the waters leapt To tussle with the furies of the air; And how the ship, in the encounter caught, Was tossed on crests of swirling dark, or dropped Between o'er-toppling walls of whelming night; How in those hours--too dread for thought or speech-- Her father's hand had bound her to a spar; And, even as--the cord between his teeth-- He tugged the last knot sure, the vessel crashed Upon a cleaving scar; and she but saw The strong, pale faces looking upon death, Before the fierce, exultant waters closed With cold oblivion o'er them; and no more She knew, until she waked within the hut, To find her world, in one disastrous night, In one swift surge of roaring darkness, swept From her young feet; her kindred, home and friends, And all familiar hopes and joys and fears Dropt like a garment from her life, which now Stood naked on the edge of some new world Of unknown terrors. Oswald heard her tale With pitying glance; yet in his eyes arose A strange, new light, which as each gust of grief Shook out the fluttering words, more brightly burned; So that, when Marna ceased, it seemed to her That he, in holy contemplation rapt, Had heeded not her woe; and from her heart Burst out a cry: "Ah God, I am alone!" But, stung by her shrill anguish, Oswald waked From his bright reverie, and his shining eyes Darkened with swift compassion, as he turned And, trembling, spake: "Nay, not alone..." Then mute He stood--his pale lips clenched--as though within There surged a torrent which he dared not loose. Marna looked wondering up; but, when her eyes Saw the white passion of his face, her soul Was tossed once more on crests of unknown fears; Yet rapture warred with terror in her heart; She trembled, and her breath came short and quick. She dared not raise her eyes again to his, Till, on her straining ears, his words, once more, Fell, slow and cold and clear as water dripping Between locked sluice-gates: "Nothing need you fear. Beyond the sea of unknown terrors lie White havens of an undiscovered peace. For even this bleak, scar-embattled coast May yield safe harbour to the storm-spent soul. Your world has fallen from you that you may Enter another world, more beautiful, Built 'neath the shadow of the throne of God. There shall you find new friends, who yet will seem Familiar to your eyes, because their souls Have passed through kindred perils and despairs." He ceased; and silence, trembling, 'twixt them hung; Till Marna, gazing yet across the sea, Rent it with words: "Where may I find this peace?" And Oswald answered: "In an inland dale The Sisters of the Cross await your coming, With ever-open gate. Within seven days, My brethren from the mainland will put out, Bringing me food; on their return with them You may embark. Till then, this barren rock Must be your home." Exultant light once more Leapt, flashing, in the depths of his dark eyes. Yet Marna looked not up, but, slowly, spake: "Yea, I must go.... But you...." Then in dismay She stopped, as though the thought had slipped unknown From her full heart; but Oswald caught the words, And spake with hard, quick speech, as if to baffle Some doubt that strove within him: "On this Isle I bide, till God shall kindle my weak soul To burn, a beacon o'er His lonely seas." Once more he paused; and perilous silence swayed Between them, until Oswald, quaking, rose, As one who dared no longer rest beneath O'er-toppling doom. Yet, with calm voice, he spake: "Even within this wilderness abides Such beauty that, in your brief sojourn here, Your soul shall starve not; all about you sweeps The ever-changing wonder of the sea; But if, too full of bitter memories, The bright waves darken, you may lift your eyes To watch the swooping gull; the flashing tern; The stately cormorant and the kittiwake-- Most beautiful of all the island-birds; Or, if your woman's heart should crave some grace More exquisite, see, frail bell-campions blow, As foam-flowers on the shallow, sandy turf." As thus he spake, a light in Marna's eyes Arose, and sorrow left her for awhile: And she with bright glance questioned him, and watched The hovering gulls, and plucked the snowy blooms, With little cries at each discovered beauty. Yet Oswald by her side walked silently, And watched, as one struck mute with anguished fear, Her eager eyes, and heard her chattering words. Then, suddenly, he left her, but returned Within the hour, with faltering step, and spake With tremulous voice: "We two must part awhile; For I must keep lone vigil in my cell Six days and nights, with fasting and with prayer; Meanwhile, within the little hut for you Are food and shelter till the brethren come. When I must give you over to their care." Marna, with wondering heart, looked up at him; But such a wild light flickered in his eyes She dared not speak; and, shuddering, he turned, And strode back swiftly to the hermitage. The Unknown Knight When purple gloomed the wintry ridge Against the sunset's windy flame, From pine-browed hills, along the bridge, An unknown rider came. I watched him idly from the tower. Though he nor looked nor raised his head; I felt my life before him cower In dumb, foreboding dread. I saw him to the portal win Unchallenged, and no lackey stirred To take his bridle when within He strode without a word. Through all the house he passed unstayed, Until he reached my father's door; The hinge shrieked out like one afraid; Then silence fell once more. All night I hear the chafing ice Float, griding, down the swollen stream; I lie fast-held in terror's vice, Nor dare to think or dream. I only know the unknown knight Keeps vigil by my father's bed: Oh, who shall wake to see the light Flame all the east with red? The King's Death The sleeping-chamber of the King: a candle burns dimly by the curtained bed. The arras parts, and two slaves enter with daggers. A storm of wind rages without. FIRST SLAVE: He sleeps. SECOND SLAVE: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse To dread unsleeping in another world. FIRST SLAVE: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful, As if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives! SECOND SLAVE: Yea, we have crouched so close in quaking dark I scarce can lift my sword-arm: strike you first. FIRST SLAVE: The heavy waiting hours have crushed my strength; The hate that burst to such an eager flame Within my heart has smouldered to dull ash, Which pity breathes to scatter. SECOND SLAVE: Knows he pity? FIRST SLAVE: Nay, he is throned above his slaughtered kin, A reeking sword his sceptre. He has broken, As one across the knee a faggot snaps, Strong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition; Yet shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him For whom kings sweat like slaves? SECOND SLAVE: Yea, at the stroke One slave lies dead--a hundred kings are born; For every man that breathes will be a king; Vast empires, beaten-dust beneath his feet, Will rise again and teem with kingly men, When he, their death, is dead FIRST SLAVE: How still he sleeps! The tempest shrieks to wake him, yet he slumbers. As seas that foam against unyielding scars, The mad wind storms the castle, wall and tower, And is not spent. Hark, it has found a breach-- Some latch unloosed--the house is full of wind; It rushes, wailing, down the corridor; It seeks the King; it cries on him to waken; Now 'tis without, and shakes the rattling bolt; Lo, it has broken in, in little gusts, I feel it in my hair; 'twill lay cold fingers Upon his lips, and start him from his sleep. See, it has whipt the yellow flame to smoke. SECOND SLAVE: And now it fails; the heavy, hanging gold That shelters him from night is all unstirred. FIRST SLAVE: Even the wind must pause. SECOND SLAVE: 'Twas but a breeze To blow our sinking courage to clear fire. Too long we loiter; soon the approaching day Will take us, slaves who grasp the arms of men Yet dare not plunge them save in our own breasts. Come, let us strike! (They approach the bed and draw aside the curtain.) FIRST SLAVE: The King--how still he sleeps! Can majesty in such calm slumber lie? SECOND SLAVE: Come, falter not, strike home! FIRST SLAVE: Hold, hold your hand, For death has stolen a march upon our hate; He does not breathe. SECOND SLAVE: The stars have wrought for us, And we are conquerors with unbloodied hands. FIRST SLAVE: Nay, nay, for in our thoughts his life was spilt; While yet our bodies lagged in fettered fear, Our shafted breath sped on and stabbed his sleep. Oh, red for all the world, across our brows, Our murderous thoughts have burned the brand of Cain. See, through the window stares the pitiless day! The Knight of the Wood "I fear the Knight of the Wood," she said "For him may no man overthrow. Where boughs are matted thick o'erhead, There gleams, amid the shadows dread, The terror of his armour red; And all men fear him, high and low; Yet all must through the forest go." She paused awhile where larches flame About the borders of the wood; Then, crying loud on Love's high name To keep her maiden-heart from shame, She entered, and full-swiftly came Where, hooded with a scarlet hood, A rider in her pathway stood. She saw the gleam of armour red; She saw the fiery pennon wave Its flaming terror overhead 'Mid writhing boughs and shadows dread. "Ah God," she cried: "that I were dead, And laid for ever in my grave!" Then, swooning, called on Love to save. Among the springing fern she fell, And very nigh to death she lay; Till, like the fading of a spell At ringing of the matin-bell, The darkness left her; by a well She waked beneath the open day, And rose to go upon her way; When, once again, the ruddy light Of arms she saw, and turned to flee; But clutching brambles stayed her flight; While, marvelling, she saw the Knight Unhooded; and his eyes were bright With April colours of the sea; And crowned as a King was he. She knelt before him in the ferns, And sang: "O Lord of Love, I bow Before thy shield, where blazoned burns The flaming heart with light that turns The night to day. O heart that yearns For love, lo, Love before thee now-- The wild-wood knight with crownÈd brow!" Notre Dame de la Belle-VerriÈre Above Thy halo's burning blue For ever hovers the White Dove; Thy heart enshrines, for ever new, The Cross--the Crown of all Thy love; While, sapphire wing on sapphire wing, About Thee choiring angels swing Gold censers, and bright candles bear. Because I have no heart to sing, I come to Thee with all my care, Notre Dame de la Belle-VerriÈre. Because the sword hath pierced Thy side, Thy brows are crowned with circling gold. The woe of all the world doth hide Within Thy mantle's azure fold. Because Thou, too, hast dwelt with fears, Through lingering days and endless years, I find no comfort otherwhere, Our Lady beautiful with tears, Our Lady sorrowfully fair, Notre Dame de la Belle-VerriÈre. My feet have travelled the hot road Between the poppies' barren fires; But now I cast aside the load Of burning hopes and wild desires That ever fierce and fiercer grew. Thy peace falls like a falling dew Upon me as I kneel in prayer, Because Thou hast known sorrow, too, Because Thou, too, hast known despair, Notre Dame de la Belle-VerriÈre. In the Valley Love, take my hand, and look not with sad eyes Through the valley-shades: for us, the mountains rise; Beneath the cold, blue-cleaving peaks of snow Like flame the April-blossomed almonds blow-- Spring-grace and winter-glory intertwined Within the glittering web that colour weaves. Yet who are they who troop so close behind With raiment rustling like frost-withered leaves That burden winter-winds with ever-restless sighs? Love, look not back, nor ever hearken more To murmuring shades; for us, the river-shore Is lit with dew-hung daffodils that gleam On either side the tawny, foaming stream That bears through April with triumphal song Dissolving winter to the brimming sea. Yet who are they who, ever-whispering, throng, With lean, grey lips that shudder piteously, As if from some bright fruit of bitter-tasting core? Nay, look not back, for, lo, in trancÈd light Love stays awhile his world-encircling flight To wait our coming from the valley-ways; See where, a hovering fire amid the blaze, He pants aflame with irised plumes unfurled Above the utmost pinnacle of noon. Yet who are they who wander through the world Like weary clouds about a wintry moon, With wan, bewildered brows that bear eternal night? Love, look not back, nor fill thy heart with woe Of old, sad loves that perished long ago; For ever after living lovers tread Pale, yearning ghosts of all earth's lovers dead. A little while with life we lead the train Ere we, too, follow, cold, some breathing love. I fear their fevered eyes and hands that strain To snatch our joy that flutters bright above, To shadow with grey death its ruddy, pulsing glow. Love, look not back in this life-crowning hour When all our love breaks into perfect flower Beneath the kindling heights of frozen time. Come, Love, that we with happy haste may climb Beyond the valley, and may chance to see Some unknown peak that cleaves unfading skies. Old sorrow saps my strength; I may not flee The flame of passionate hunger in their eyes; Beseeching shade on shade--they hold me in their power. Love, look not back, for, all too brief, our day, In wilder glories flameth fast away. Lo, even now, the northern snow-ridge glows-- With purple shadowed--from pale gold to rose That shivers white beneath stars dawning cold. Lift up thine eyes ere all the colour fades. Ah, rainbow-plumÈd Love in airs of gold, Too late I turn, a shade among the shades. To follow, death-enthralled, thy flight through ages grey. The Vision. A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY. PERSONS: A YOUNG HERD. HIS MOTHER. SCENE: THE QUEEN'S CRAGS. TIME: CHRISTMAS EVE. The herd stands at the foot of the Crags, gazing across the dark fells. His mother enters. MOTHER: Son, come home, nor tarry here In this peril-haunted place. My old heart is filled with fear By the white flame of thy face, And thine eyes whose restless fire Burneth ever wild and clear As red peats between the bars. Son, come home; the night is cold; Dropping from the wintry stars, Tingling frost falls through the air; See, the bents are white with rime; All the sheep are in the fold; All the cattle in the byre; Only we, of live things, roam O'er the fells so far from home; E'en the red fox in his lair Snuggles close to keep him warm; And the lonely, wandering hare Crouches, shivering, in her form; While by Greenlea's frozen edge Hides the mallard in the sedge. Son, come home; the ingle-seat Waits thee by the glowing peat, And the door is off the latch. Come, and we will feast and sing, As of old at Christmas time, Until thou wilt drowse and nod And with slumber-drooping head Gladly seek thy bracken-bed Underneath the heather-thatch; Where the healing sleep will bring Unto thee the peace of God. Son, come home! Whom seekest thou there? HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere! MOTHER: Cry no more on Guenevere. Some wild warlock of the fells, Born beneath the Devil's Scars, Lures thee forth to drown thy soul Deep in Broomlea-water cold. Guenevere no longer dwells Anywhere beneath the stars; Though she walked these Crags of old, Many hundred years ago, Into earth she sank like snow; As a sunset-cloud in rain Breaks, and showers the thirsty plain, All the glory of her hair Fell to earth, we know not where. Leave thy foolish quest forlorn. Lo, to-night a King is born, Who, when earthly kings at last Into wildering night are passed, Yet shall wear the crown of morn. Mary, Thou whose love may turn Eyes that after evil burn, Draw his soul, that strays so far, To Thy Son's white throning-star. Queen of Heaven, hear my prayer! HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere! MOTHER: Low she lies, and may not hear. The white lily, Guenevere, Ruthless time has trodden down; Arthur is a tarnished crown, High Gawain a broken spear, Percival a riven shield; They, who taught the world to yield, Closed with death and lost the field, Stricken by the last despair: Launcelot is but a name Blown about the winds of shame; Surely God has quenched the flame That burned men's souls for Guenevere. Mary, heed a mother's woe; Mary, heed a mother's tears! Thou, whose heart so long ago Knew the pangs and hopes and fears We poor mortal mothers know; Thou, to whom, on Christmas-morn, Christ, the Son of God, was born; Thou whose mother-love hath pressed The sweet Babe against thy breast; And with wondering joy hath felt The warm clutch of little hands, When the Kings from far-off lands-- Crowned with gold, in gold attire-- With the simple shepherds knelt 'Mid the beasts within the byre; Mary, if Thy heart, afraid, When beyond Thy care he strayed, Sometimes grieved that he must grow Unlike other boys and men-- Filled with dreams beyond Thy ken, Anguished with diviner woe, Pangs more fiery than Thy pain, Deeper than Thy dark despair-- From the perils of the night Give me back my son again. Thou, whose love may never fail, Heed a lonely mother's prayer! Come in all Thy healing might! A sudden glory sweeps across the Fells. The vision appears in a cleft of the Crags. The herd and his mother kneel before it. MOTHER: Mary, Queen of Heaven, hail! HERD (falling forward): Guenevere! Guenevere! THE THREE KINGS. To C. J. S. The Three Kings PERSONS: KING GARLAND, KING ARLO, KING ASHALORN. SEA-VOICES, WAVE-VOICES, AND WIND-VOICES. SCENE: A rock in the midst of the North Sea, whereon the three kings, bound naked by conquering sea-rovers, have been left to perish. VOICE OF THE DAWN-WIND: Awaken, O sea, from thy starry dream; Awaken, awaken! For delight of thy slumber not one pale gleam From dim star-clusters remaineth unshaken. All night I have haunted the valleys and rivers; Now hither I come-- Ere, quickened with sunlight, the drowsy east quivers-- To waken thy song, night-bewildered and dumb; To stir thy grey waters, of starlight forsaken, To loosen white foam in the red of the dawn. WAVE-VOICES: The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; All night we have waited thee, herald of light. We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, And spray with our laughter the trail of the night. All night we have waited thee, weary of stars-- The little star-dreams, and the sleep without song; The deep-brooding slumber of silence that holds Our melody mute in the uttermost deep. O Wind of the Dawn, we have waited thee long; The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, With a tumult of singing, a rapture of spray, To scatter our joy in the path of the day. GARLAND: Day comes at last, beyond the sea's grey rim; The young sun leaps in sudden might of gold. ASHALORN: Before his fire our lives will smoulder dim; Like stars we shine, we fade; the tale is told, And all our empty splendour put to scorn; Fate leaves us, who were clothed in pride, forlorn, To perish, naked, in this lonely sea. But yesterday we ruled as kings of earth; Frail men to-day; to-morrow, who shall be? ARLO: But yesterday my cup of life was filled To overflowing with the wine of mirth-- The plashing joy from fruitful years distilled. GARLAND: But yesterday my kinghood sprang to birth; My fingers scarce had grasped the might new-born, When from my clutch the glittering pomp was torn. SEA-VOICES: They slumber, they slumber, the kings in their pride. The beak of the Rover is dipt in the tide; The sails of the Rover are red in the wind; And white is the trail of the foam flung behind. They have fallen, have fallen, the kings in their pride; Their sea-gates are forced by the rush of the tide; Their splendour is scattered as surf on the wind; And red is the trail of the terror behind. Forsaken, forlorn, On a rock of the sea, In anguish they bow, And wait for the night and the darkness to be; Oh, bright was the gold in their hair; The sea-weed, in scorn, Is twined in it now; Oh, rich was their raiment and rare, Blue, purple, and gold, In fold upon fold; Of glory and majesty shorn, They are clothed with the wind of despair. GARLAND: Lo, the live waters run to greet the day: Even so I laughed to see the soaring light; My life was poised like yonder curving wave To break in such bright revel of keen spray. ARLO: I counted not the years that took their flight, Gold-crowned and singing; every hour I stood, As one enchanted in an April wood, In some new paradise of scent and flowers. I counted not the countless, careless hours, The days of rapture and the nights of peace. How should I dream that such delight could pass, Such colour fade, such flowing numbers cease, My glory perish where was none to save, And all my strength be trodden in the grass? ASHALORN: Oh, blest art thou who diest in thy youth; Oh, blest art thou who failest in thy prime; While yet thine eyes are full of wondering truth; Ere yet thy feet have found the ways of thorn. Too long I wandered down the vale of time, A lonely wind, all songless and forlorn; For I have found the empty heart of things, The secret sorrow of the summer rose, And all the sadness of the April green; I know that every happy stream that springs Into a sea of bitter memories flows; I know the curse that God has set on kings-- The solitary splendour and the crown Of desolation, and the prisoning state; The heart that yearns beneath the robe of gold, The soul that starves behind the golden gate. I know how chance has reared our earthly thrones Upon a shifting wrack of whitened bones, Of heroes fallen in the wars of old-- By wind upbuilded and by wind cast down. SEA-VOICES: As foam on the edge of the waters of night, They flicker and fall; More brief than delight, More frail than their tears, They flicker and fall In the tide of the years; Awhile they may triumph, as lords of the earth, With feasting and mirth, Yet the winds and the waters shall sweep over all. VOICE OF THE WEST WIND: O wide-shifting wonder of sapphire and gold, O wandering glory of emerald and white, From the purple and green of the moorlands I come, To sweep o'er thy waters with turbulent flight, To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away. I have drunk the red wine of the heather, and swept Over moorland and fell, for mile upon mile. The little blue loughs were merry, and leapt, With a shaking of laughter, in dim, dreaming hollows; The little blue loughs were merry, and flung Their spray on my wings as above them I swung; I laughed to their laughter, and dallied awhile; Then left them to sink in the silence that follows. In the forest I stirred, like the chant of thy tides, The song of the boughs and the branches a-swinging; The ashes and beeches and oak-trees were singing, Like the noise of thy waters when dark tempest rides. I swung on the crest of the pine-trees a-swaying, As now on thy green, flowing surges, O sea; I piped in my triumph, they danced to my playing; I left them a-murmur, to hasten to thee. The white clouds were driven like ships through the air, And grey flowed the shadows o'er sea-coloured bent, And dark on the heathland, and dark on the wold: But here on thy waters, where all things grow fair, They shadow with purple thine emerald and gold. My revel unbroken, my rapture unspent, To thy far-shining wonder, O sea, I have come, To sweep o'er thy splendour with turbulent flight; To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away. GARLAND: There is no sadness in the world but death. The years that whitened o'er thy head have taken The colour from thy life, but still in me The blood beats young and red; yea, still my breath Is full of freshness as the wind that blows Across the morning-fells when night has shaken His cooling dews among the wakening heath. Yea, now the wind that lashes o'er the sea Stings all my quivering body to keen life And whips the blood into my straining limbs; And all the youth within me springs to fire; I am consumed with ravening desire For one brief, wild, delirious hour of strife; I yearn for every joy that flies or swims, Rides on the wind or with the water flows. Yet I must die by patient, slow degrees, With hourly wasting flesh and parching blood; Ah God, that I might leap into the flood, And perish struggling in the adventurous seas! ARLO: My mouth is filled with saltness, and I thirst For forest-pools that bubble in the shade, When loud the hot chase pants through every glade, And fleeing fawns from every thicket burst; Or clear wine vintaged when the world was young, Gurgling from deep-mouthed jars of coloured stone. ASHALORN: The noonday burns my body to the bone, And sets a coal of fire upon my tongue, Between my lips, and stifles all my breath. Oh come, thou only joy undying, death! WAVE-VOICES: O wind, that failing, failing, failing, dies, Beneath the heat of August-laden skies, Sinking in sleep, sinking in quiet sleep-- Thy blue wings folded o'er our dreaming deep We too are weary, weary in the noon; We too will fall in shining slumber soon-- Foamless and still, foamless and very still, Unstirred, unshaken by thy restless will. Yet there are eyes that cannot, cannot close, And strong souls racked by fiery, rending woes-- Never to rest, never to gather rest By any stream of murmuring waters blest. But slumber falling, falling, on us lies, Silent and deep, beneath noon-laden skies, Silent and deep, silent and very deep, With blue wings folded o'er our dreaming sleep. *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â * VOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: I have shaken the noon from my wings, I arise To quicken the flame in the western skies-- To blow the clouds to a streaming flame, Where the red sun sinks in the opal sea, And red as the heart of the opal glows His last wild gleam in the waters grey. O grey-green waters, curling to rose, The kings are glad of the dying day; The kings are weary; the white mists close-- The white mists gather to cover their shame. |
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