Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) SONGS OF LOVE AND EMPIRE SONGS OF LOVE AND EMPIRE By E. NESBIT AUTHOR OF âLAYS AND LEGENDS,â âA POMANDER OF VERSE,â ETC WESTMINSTER ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO 1898 âAfter Sixty Yearsâ appeared on June 22, 1897, in the _Daily News_; âTo the Queen of Englandâ and many other verses in the _Pall Mall Gazette_; âA Song of Peace and Honourâ and âA Song of Trafalgarâ in the _Daily Chronicle_, and certain other verses in the _AthenÃ¦um_. To the Editors of these papers my thanks are due. _TO HUBERT BLAND_ _To you the harvest of my toil has come,_ _ause of all that lies its sheaves between;_ _ taught me first what Love and Empire mean,_ _ to your hands I bring my harvest home._ CONTENTS PAGE ABSOLUTION 167 ADVENTURER, THE 58 AFTER SIXTY YEARS 11 APPEAL, THE 93 âAT EVENING TIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHTâ 150 AT THE SOUND OF THE DRUM 67 BALLAD OF THE WHITE LADY, THE 43 BETRAYED 109 BY FAITH WITH THANKSGIVING 91 CHAINS INVISIBLE 147 CHRISTMAS HYMN 164 CROWN OF LIFE, THE 157 DIRGE 125 DISCRETION 86 EBB-TIDE 132 ENTREATY 83 EVENING PRAYER 162 EVENING SONG 129 FAITH 62 FAUTE DE MIEUX 99 FEBRUARY 139 FOREST POOL, THE 84 GHOST BEREFT, THE 50 GOOSE GIRL, THE 69 GUARDIAN ANGEL, THE 74 HAUNTED 123 HEART OF GRIEF, THE 115 HEART OF JOY, THE 113 HEART OF SADNESS, THE 111 IN ECLIPSE 103 IN THE ENCHANTED TOWER 60 LAST ACT, THE 97 âLOVE WELL THE HOURâ 107 MAGNIFICAT 159 MAIDENHOOD 152 MEDWAY SONG 144 MONK, THE 155 NEW COLLEGE GARDENS, OXFORD 135 OFFERING, THE 82 ON THE DOWNS 133 OUT OF HOPE 121 PEDLAR, THE 71 PORTRAIT, A 80 PRELUDE 66 PROMISE OF SPRING, THE 141 QUEEN OF ENGLAND, THE 3 REFUSAL, THE 64 REQUIEM 117 âSHEPHERDS ALL AND MAIDENS FAIRâ 77 SONG IN AUTUMN 95 SONG OF LONG AGO 101 SONG OF PEACE AND HONOUR 35 SONG OF TRAFALGAR 26 SPECIAL PLEADING 105 SPRING SONG 88 TEINT NEUTRE 119 âTHIS DESIRABLE MANSIONâ 131 TO A TULIP BULB 137 TOO LATE 90 TRAFALGAR DAY 24 VAIN SPELL, THE 55 WATERLOO DAY 32 I TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND [JUNE 22, 1897] Come forth! the worldâs aflame with flags and flowers, The shout of bells fills full the shattered air, This is the crown of all your golden hours, More than all other hours august and fair; This did the years prepare, A triumph for our Lady and our Queen, More rich than any king in any land hath seen. Clothed are your streets with scarlet, gold, and blue, Flowers under foot and banners over head, And while your peopleâs voice storms Heaven for you About your way are voiceless blessings shed, And over you are spread Wide wings of love, free love, tamed to your hand, Love that gold cannot buy, nor Majesty command. Not these mere visible millions only, share Your triumph--here all English hearts beat high, Nations far off your royal colours wear, And swell with unheard voice this loyal cry That strikes the English sky: A cloud of unseen witnesses is here To testify how great is Englandâs Queen, and dear. From out the grey-veiled past, long years away, Come visionary faces, vision-led, And splendid shapes that are not of our day, The spirits of the mute and mighty dead, To see how Time has sped The fortunes of their England, and behold How much more great she is than in the days of old. The world can see them not; but you can see-- You the inheritor of all the past Wherein the dead, in noble heraldry, Blazoned the shield of England, and forecast The charge it bears at last-- More splendid than the azure and the or Of the French lilies lost--long lost and sorrowed for. Here be the weaponed men, the English folk, Who in long ships across the swanâs bathfared, In whose rude tongue the voice of Freedom spoke, In whose rough hands the sword was bright and bared-- The men who did and dared, And to their sons bequeathed the fighting blood That drives to Victory and will not be withstood. Here, in your ordered festival, O Queen, Mixed with the crowd and all unseen of these, On their long swords the wild Norse rovers lean And watch the progress of your pageantries, And on this young June breeze Float the bright pennons of the Cressy spears-- Shine shadowy shafts that fell, as snow falls, at Poitiers. Here flutter phantom flags that once flew free Above the travail of the tournament; Here gleam old swords, once wet for Liberty; Old blood-stiff banners, worn with war and rent, Are with your fresh flowers blent, And by your crown, where love and fame consort, Shines the unvanquished cloven crown of Agincourt. Upon your river where, by day and night, Your world-adventuring ships come home again, Glide ghostly galleons, manned by men of might Who plucked the wings and singed the beard of Spain; The men who, not in vain, Saved to the children of a world new-trod The birth-tongue of our land, her freedom, and her God. Princes who lived to make our England great, Poets who wreathed her greatness with their song, Wise men who steered her heavy ship of State, Brave men who steered her battle-ships along, In spectral concourse throng To applaud the consummated power and pride Of that belovÃ¨d land for which they lived and died. The thousand un-named heroes who, sword-strong, Ploughed the long acre wherein Empire grows Wide as the world, and long as Time is long-- These mark the crescence of the English rose Whose thorny splendour glows Oâer far-off subject lands, by alien waves, A crown for Englandâs brow, a garland for her graves. And faces out of unforgotten years, Faces long hidden by deathâs misty screen, Faces you still can scarcely see for tears, Will smile on you to-day and near you lean, O Mother, Wife, and Queen! With whispered love too sacred and too dear For any ear than yours, Mother and Wife, to hear. Lady, the crowd will vaunt to-day your fame, Daughter and heir of many mighty kings, The Queen of England, whose imperial name From Englandâs heart and lips tumultuous springs In prayers and thanksgivings, Because your greatness and her greatness shine Merged each in each, as stars their beams that intertwine. Yet in the inmost heart, where folded close The richest treasures of the poorest lie, Love, whose clear eyes see many secrets, knows A nobler name than Queen to call you by, And breathes it silently; But, âmid His listening crowd of angels, One Shall speak your name and say, âFaithful and good, well done!â AFTER SIXTY YEARS Ring, bells! flags, fly! and let the great crowd roar Its ecstasy. Let the hid heart in prayer Lift up your name. God bless you evermore, Lady, who have the noblest crown to wear That ever woman wore. A jewel, in the front of time, shall blaze This day, of all your days commemorate; With Timeâs white bays your brows are laureate, And Englandâs love shall garland all your days. * * * * * When Englandâs crown, to Loveâs acclaim, was laid On the soft brightness of a maidenâs hair, Amid delight, Love trembled, half afraid, To give that little head such weight to bear,-- Bind on so slight a maid A kingdomâs purple--bid her hands hold high The sceptre and the heavy orb of power, To give to youth and beauty for a dower Care and a crown, sorrow and sovereignty. But from our hearts sprang an intenser flame When loyal Love met tender Love half way, And, in loveâs script, wrote on the scroll of fame, Entwined with all the splendour of that day, The letters of her name. Then as fair roses grow âmid leaves of green, Love amid loyalty grew strong and close, To hedge a pleasaunce round our Royal rose, Our sovereign maiden flower, our child, our Queen. The trumpets spake--in sonorous triumph shout, Their speech found echo in the hundred guns; From countless towers the answering bells rang out, And Englandâs heart spoke clamorous, through her sons, The exulting land throughout. Down streets ablaze with light the flags unfurled, Along dark, lonely hills the joy-fires crept, And eager swords within their scabbards leapt To guard our Lady and Queen against the world. Those swords are rusted now. Good men and true Dust in the dust are laid who held her dear; But from their grave the bright flower springs anew, Which for her festival we bring her here, The long yearsâ meed and due; The bud of homage graffed on chivalry. God took the souls that shrined the jewel of love, But made their sons inheritors thereof, In endless gold entail of loyalty. Time, compensating life, the fruit bestowed When in spent perfume passed the flower of youth; Her feet were set upon the upward road, Her face was turned towards the star of truth That in her soul abode. With youth the maidâs bright brow was garlanded But richer crowns adorn the dear white hair; The gathered love of all the years lies there, In coronal benediction on her head. She is of our blood, for hath not she, too, met The angels of delight and of despair? Does not she, too, remember and forget How bitter or how bright the lost days were? Her eyes have tears made wet; She has seen joy unveilÃ¨d even as we, Has laid upon cold clay the heart-warm kiss, She has known Sorrow for the king he is; She has held little children on her knee. Mother, dear Mother, these your children rise And call you blessÃ¨d, and shall we not, too, Who are your children in the greater wise, And love you for our land and her for you? The blessing sanctifies Your children as they breathe it at your knees, And, bringing little gifts from very far, Where the great nurseries of your Empire are, Your childrenâs blessings throng from over seas. On Loveâs spread wings, and over leagues of space, Homage is borne from far-off sun-steeped lands; From many a domed mysterious Eastern place, Where Secresy holds Time between her hands, The children of your race Reach English hands towards your English throne; And from the far South turn blue English eyes, That never saw the blue of English skies, Yet call you Mother, and your land their own. Where âmid great trees the mighty waters flow In arrogant submission to your sway, In fur of price your northern hunters go, And shafts of ardent greeting fly your way Across the splendid snow; And isles that with their coral, safe and small, Rock in the cradle of the tropic seas, In soft, strange speech join in the litanies That pride and prayer breathe at your festival. All round the world, on every far-off sea, In wind-ploughed oceans and in sun-kissed bays, By every busy wharf and chattering quay, Some cantle of your Empire sails or stays-- Flaunts your supremacy Against the winds of all the world, and flies Your flag triumphant between blue and blue, Blazons to sun and star the name of you, And spreads your glory between seas and skies. There is no cottage garden, sunny-sweet, There is no pasture where our shepherds tend Their quiet flocks, no red-roofed village street, But holds for you the love-wish of a friend, Blent with high homage meet; No little farm among the cornfields lone, No little cot upon the uplands bare, But hears to-day in blessing and in prayer One name, Victoria, and that name your own. From the vast cities where the giantâs might, Pauseless, resistless, moves by night and day, From hidden mines where day is one with night, From weary lives whose days and nights are grey And empty of delight, From lives that rhyme to sunshine and the spring, From happiness at flood and hope at ebb, Rose the magnificent and mingled web That floats, your banner, at your thanksgiving. Throned on the surety of a splendid past, With present glory clothed as with the sun, Crowned with the futureâs hopes, you know at last What treasure from the years your life has won; Behold, your hands hold fast The moon of Empire, and its sway controls The tides of war and peace, while in those hands Lies tender homage out of all the lands Against whose feet your furthest ocean rolls. How seems your life, looked back at through the years? Much love, much sorrow, dead desires, lost dreams, A great life lived out greatly; hidden tears, And smiles for daily wear; strong plans and schemes, And mighty hopes and fears; War in the South and murder in the East, And Englandâs heart-throbs echoed by your heart When loss, and labour, and sorrow were her part, Or when Fate bade her to some flower-crowned feast. Red battle-fields whereon your soldiers died, Green pastoral fields saved by the blood of these, Duty that bade mere sorrow stand aside, And love transforming anguish into ease; Long longing satisfied, Great secrets wrenched from Natureâs grudging breast, The fruit of knowledge plucked for all to eat,-- These have you known, Lifeâs circle is complete, And, knowing these, you know what is Lifeâs best: The dear small secrets of our common life, The English woods and hills, the English home, The common joys and griefs of Mother and wife, Joy coming, going--griefs that go and come, Soulâs peace amid worldâs strife; Hours when the Queenâs cares leave the woman free; Dear friendships, where the friend forgets the Queen And stoops to wear a dearer, homelier mien, And be more loved than mere Queens rise to be. And, in your hour of triumph, when you shine The centre of our triumphâs blazing star, And, gazing down your long lifeâs lustrous line, Behold how great your life-long glories are, Yet, in your heartâs veiled shrine, No splendour of all splendours that have been Will brim your eyes with tremulous thanksgivings, But little memories of little things-- The treasures of the woman, not the Queen. Yet, Queen, because the love of you hath wound A golden girdle all about the earth, Because your name is as a trumpet sound To call toward you men of English birth From the worldâs outmost bound, Because old kinsmen, long estranged from home, Come, with old foes, to greet you, friend and kin, With kindly eyes behold your guests come in, See from afar the long procession come! No Emperor in Romeâs Imperial days Knew ever such a triumph day as this, Though captive kings bore chains along his ways, Though tribute from the furthest isles was his, With pageant and with praise. For you--free kings and free republics grace Your triumph, and across the conquered waves Come gifts from friends, not tributes wrung from slaves, And praise kneels, clothed in love, before your face. Ring, bells! flags, fly! and let the great crowd roar Its ecstasy! Let the hid heart in prayer Lift up your name! God bless you evermore, Lady, who have the noblest crown to wear That ever monarch wore. For, âmid this dayâs triumphal voluntaries, Your name shines like the splendour of the sun, Because your name with Englandâs name is one, As Hers, thank God! is one with Libertyâs. TRAFALGAR DAY Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves, Till Englandâs boughs are bare of leaves! Soon comes the flower more rare, more dear Than any laurel this year weaves-- The Aloe of the hundredth year Since from the smoke of Trafalgar He passed to where the heroes are, Nelson, who passed and yet is here, Whose dust is fire beneath our feet, Whose memory mans our fleet. Laurels, bring laurels, since they hold His Englandâs tears in each green fold, His Englandâs joy, his Englandâs pride, His Englandâs glories manifold. Yet what was Victory since he died? And what was Death since he lives yet, Above a Nationâs worship set, Above her heroes glorified?-- Nelson, who made our flag a star To lead where Victories are! A SONG OF TRAFALGAR Like an angry sun, like a splendid star, War gleams down the long yearsâ track; They strain at the leash, the dogs of war, And who shall hold them back? âLet loose the pack: we are English bred, We will meet them full and fair With the flag of England over our head, And his hand to keep it there!â So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled, Blew brave to the north and south; An iron answer we gave the world, For we spoke by the cannonâs mouth. But he who taught us the word to say Grew dumb as his Victory sang, And England mourned on her triumph day, And wept while her joy-bells rang. Long hour by hour, and long day by day, The swift years crept apace, The patient, the coral-insect way, To cover the dear dead face. O foolish rabble of envious years, Who wist not the dead must rise, His name is music still in our ears, His face a light to our eyes! Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign Of a deathless love and pride; These cling more close than the laurels twine, They are strong as the world is wide: At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad Shall glory and love be laid, While Glory sings to an English lad, Or Love to an English maid. Wherever the gleams of an English fire On an English roof-tree shine, Wherever the fire of a youthâs desire Is laid upon Honourâs shrine, Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told, In the tale of the deeds of yore Like jewels of price in a chain of gold Are the name and the fame he bore. Wherever the track of our English ships Lies white on the ocean foam, His name is sweet to our English lips As the names of the flowers at home; Wherever the heart of an English boy Grows big with a deed of worth, Such names as his name have begot the same, Such hearts will bring it to birth. They say that his England, grown tired and old, Lies drunk by her heavy hoard; They say her hands have the grasp of the gold But not the grip of the sword, That her robe of glory is rent and shred, And that winds of shame blow through: Speak for your England, O mighty Dead, In the deeds you would have her do! Small skill have we to fight with the pen Who fought with the sword of old, For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen Is as much as one hand can hold. Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use, And the coward and the wise choose these; But fools and brave were our English crews When Nelson swept the seas. âTis the way of a statesman to fear and fret, To ponder and pause and plan, But the way of Nelson was better yet, For that was the way of a man; They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough, They have bidden us palter and pray, But the way of Nelson was good enough, For that was the fighting way. If Nelsonâs England must stoop to bear What never honour should brook, In vain does the tomb of her hero wear The laurel his brow forsook; In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns, If now must her lips refrain; In vain has she made us, her living sons, Her dead have made her in vain. So here with your bays be the dear head crowned, Lay flowers where the dear dust lies, And wreathe his column with laurel round To point his fame to the skies; But the greenest laurel that ever grew Is the laurel thatâs yet to win; Crowned with his laurels he waits for You To bring Your laurels in! WATERLOO DAY [JUNE 18] This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep. Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep; Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead, Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red, When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade, When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made, When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey, And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day. England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease, Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace: And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame; They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name. Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years, Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears! For valour and faith and honour--these grow where the red flower grows, And the leaves for the Nationâs healing must spring from the blood of her foes. A SONG OF PEACE AND HONOUR [DECEMBER, 1895] TO THE QUEEN Lady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine, Upon whose head the glories of our land In one immortal diadem are met, Embodied England, in whose woman-hand The sceptre of Imperial sway is set, Receive this song of mine! For you are England, and her bays grow green To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace, And in our hearts your face is as Her face; The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen. * * * * * We, men of England, children of her might, With all our Motherâs record-roll of glory, Great with her greatness, noble by her name, Drank with our mothersâ milk our Motherâs story, And in our veins the splendour of her fame Made strong our blood and bright; And to her absent sons her name has been Familiar music heard in distant lands, Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands, England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen! Out of the thunderous echoes of the past Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear Her voice, âO children of a royal line, Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear, Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine All glorious to the last!â And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men, And men to heroes, and the voice of fear Is as a whisper in a deaf manâs ear, And the dead past is quick in us again. Her robe is woven of glory and renown, Hers are the golden-laden Argosies, And lordship of the wild and watery ways, Her flag is blown across the utmost seas: Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze For jewels in her crown. Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold The world; her feet upon her foes are set; She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet Won by her children in the days of old. Yet in a treasury of such gems as these Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill To the vast limit of the circling sun, England, our Mother, in her heart holds still, As her most precious jewel, save only one, The priceless pearl of peace-- Peace plucked from out the very heart of war Through the long agony of strenuous years, Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears, A pearl to lie where Englandâs treasures are. O peaceful English lanes all white with may, O English meadows where the grass grows tall, O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold And twilit dew calls gray;-- These are the home, the happy cradle-place Of every man who has our English tongue, Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung, Heirs of the glory of our mighty race! Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth: Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside? Is it not more to us than all things are? Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide, But Englandâs honour is more precious far Than all the heavens and earth. Were honour outcast from her supreme place Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine, But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine, Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace. Know then, O ye our brothers over sea, We will not cast our pearl of Peace away, But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last, The whole world came against us in array, If all our glory into darkness passed, Our Empire ceased to be, Yet should we still have chosen the better part Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down, Though lost were every jewel in our crown We still should wear our jewel in our heart. So, for our Motherâs honour, if it must Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way; Not trampled down, but given, for her sake Who forged of many an iron yesterday The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake When we are dust, in dust: For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame And all the world, even to our very land, Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand Against the honour of our English name! II THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE LADY Sir Geoffrey met the white lady Upon his marriage morn, Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are, Her hair was gold like corn. Sir Geoffrey gave the white lady A posy of roses seven, âYou are the fairest May,â said he, âThat ever strayed from Heaven.â Sir Geoffrey by the white lady Was lured away to shame, For seven long years of prayers and tears No tidings of him came. Then she who should have been his bride A mighty oath she swore, âFor seven long years I have wept and prayed, Now I will pray no more. âSince God and all the saints of Heaven Bring not my lord to me, I will go down myself to hell And bring him back,â said she. * * * * * She crept to the white ladyâs bower, The taperâs flame was dim, And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep, And the white witch sat by him. Her arm was laid across his neck, Her gold hair on his face, And there was silence in the room As in a burial-place. And there were gems and carven cups, And âbroidered bridal gear-- âWhose bridal is this?â the lady said, âAnd what knight have ye here?â âThe good knight here ye know full well, He was your lord, I trow, But I have taken him from your side, And I am his lady now. âThis seven year with right good cheer We twain our bridal keep, So take for your mate another knight And let my dear lord sleep.â Then up and spake Sir Geoffreyâs bride, âWhat bridal cheer is this? I would think scorn to have the lips Who could not have the kiss! âI would think scorn to take the half Who could not have the whole; I would think scorn to steal the body Who could not take the soul! âFor, though ye hold his body fast This seven weary year, His soul walks ever at my side And whispers in my ear. âI would think scorn to hold in sleep What, if it waked, would flee, So let his body join his soul And both fare forth with me; âFor I have learned a spell more strong Than yours that laid him low, And I will speak it for his sake Because I love him so!â The white lady threw back her hair, Her eyes began to shine-- âHis soul is thine these seven years?-- To-night it shall be mine! âI have been brave to hold him here While seven long years befell, Rather than let a bridal be Whose seed should flower in hell. âI have not looked into his eyes Nor joined my lips to his, For fear his soul should spring to flame And shrivel at my kiss. âI have been brave to watch his sleep While the long hours come and go, To hold the body without the soul, Because I love him so. âBut since his soul this seven year Has sat by thee,â she said, âHis body and soul to-night shall lie Upon my golden bed. âThou hast no need to speak the spell That thou hast learned,â said she, âFor I will wake him from his sleep And take his soul from thee.â She stooped above him where he lay, She laid her lips on his; He stirred, he spake: âThese seven long years I have waited for thy kiss. âMy soul has hung upon thy lips And trembled at thy breath, Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink, As God will give me death. âWhy didst thou fear to kill my soul Which only lives for thee? Thou hast put seven wasted years, O love, âtwixt thee and me.â THE GHOST BEREFT The poor ghost came through the wind and rain And passed down the old dear road again. Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayed Like little children that shrank afraid. The wind was wild and the night was late When the poor ghost came to the garden gate; Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet, The weeds stood up where the rose was set. The wind was angry, the rain beat sore When the poor ghost came to its own house-door. âAnd shall I find her a-weeping still To think how alone I lie and chill? âOr shall I find her happy and warm With her dear head laid on a new loveâs arm? âOr shall I find she has learned to pine For anotherâs love, and not for mine? âWhatever chance, I have this to my store, She is mine, my own, for evermore!â So the poor ghost came through the wind and rain Till it reached the square bright window pane. âOh! what is here in the room so bright? Roses and love, and a hid delight? âWhat lurks in the silence that fills the room? A cypress wreath from a dead manâs tomb? âWhat sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it be Her heart that is breaking--and not for me?â Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane, Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain. âOh, there is light, at the feet and head Twelve tall tapers about the bed. âOh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare, But not the garland a bride may wear. âJasmine white and a white white rose, But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes. âStraight lilies laid on the strait white bier-- But the room is empty--she is not here! âHer body lies here, deserted, cold; And the body that loved it creeps in the mould. âWas there ever an hour when my Love, set free, Would not have hastened and come to me? âCan the soul that loved mine long ago Be hence and away, and I not know? âOh, then Godâs judgment is on me sore, For I have lost her for evermore!â And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rain To its own appointed place again. * * * * * But up in Heaven, where memories cease Because the blessed have won to peace, One pale saint shivered, and closer wound The shining raiment that wrapped her round. âOh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I, Yet I fain would remember the days gone by. âThe past is veiled, and I may not know, But I think there was sorrow, long ago; âThe sun of Heaven is warm and bright, But I think there is rain on the earth to-night. âO Christ, because of Thine own sore pain Help all poor souls in the wind and rain.â THE VAIN SPELL The house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white, The fields are alight with dew; âOh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night? I have waited the whole night through, For I knew, O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart, That the night of all nights is this, When elm shall crack and lead shall part, When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts start To let you through to my kiss.â So spake she alone in the lonely house. She had wrapped her round with the spell, She called the call, she vowed the vow, And the heart she had pledged knew well That this was the night, the only night, When the moulds might be wrenched apart, When the living and dead, in the dead of the night, Might clasp once more, in the graveâs despite, For the price of a living heart. But out in the grave the corpse lay white And the grave clothes were wet with dew; âOh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night, I have waited the whole night through, For I knew That I dared not leave my grave for an hour Since the hour of all hours is near, When you shall come to the hollow bower, In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power, To the heart that to-night beats here!â The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still; Ah, God! do the dead forget? The grave is white and the bed is chill, But a guest may be coming yet. But the hour has come and the hour has gone That never will come again; Loveâs only chance is over and done, And the quick and the dead are twain, not one, And the price has been paid in vain. THE ADVENTURER The land of gold was far away, The sea a challenge roared between; I left my throne, my crown, my queen, And sailed out of the quiet bay. I met the challenge of the wave, The curses of the winds I mocked: The conquered wave my galley rocked, The wind became my envious slave. I brought much treasure from afar, Spices, and shells, and rich attire; Red rubies, fed with living fire, To lie where all my longings are. Heavy with spoil my keel ploughed low As slow we sailed into the bay, And long ago seemed yesterday And yesterday looked long ago. I came in triumph from the sea; Bent was my crown, my courts grown mean, And on my throne a faded queen Raised alien eyes, and looked at me. âMy queen! These rubies let me lay Upon thy heart, as once my head ...â She smiled pale scorn: âMy heart!â she said, And turned her weary eyes away. IN THE ENCHANTED TOWER The waves in thunderous menace break Upon the rocks below my tower, And none will dare the Sea-kingâs power And venture shipwreck for my sake. Yet once,--my lamp a path of light Across the darkling sea had cast-- I saw a sail; at last, at last, It came towards me through the night. My lamp had been the beacon set To lead the ship through mist and foam, The ship that came to take me home, To that far land I half forget. But since my tower is built so high, And surf-robed rocks curl hid below, I quenched my lamp--and, weeping low I saw my ship go safely by! FAITH Through the long night, the deathlong night, Along the dark and haunted way, I knew your hidden face was bright-- More bright than any day. And when the faint, insistent moan Rose from some weed-grown wayside grave, I said, âI do not walk alone; âTis easy to be brave.â I never turned to speak with you, For all the way was dark and long, But all the shadowsâ menace through Your silence was my song. I never sought to take your hand, For all the way was long and rough; I taught my soul to understand That love was strength enough. Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near, A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band; I called aloud for you to hear, My hand besought your hand. No voice, no touch--the thin ghosts glide Where in my dream I dreamed you were-- Night, night, you are not by my side, You never have been there! THE REFUSAL Mine is a palace fair to see, All hung with gold and silver things, It is more glorious than a kingâs, And crownÃ¨d queens might envy me. Ah, no, I will not let you in! Stay rather at the gates and weep For all the splendour that I keep, The treasures that you cannot win. While you desire and I refuse, For both the palace still is here-- Its turrets gold, its silver gear Are yours to wish for--mine to use. But if I let you in, I know The spell would break, the palace fade, And we stand, trembling and afraid, Lost in the dark where chill winds blow. PRELUDE Out of the west when the sun was dying Clouds of white wings came flying, flying, Wheeling and whirling they swept away Into the heart of the eastern gray; But one white dove came straight to my breast Out of the west. Into the west when the dawn was pearly Clouds of white wings went, dewy-early, Straight from the world of the waning stars; O beating pinions! O prison bars! My dove flies free no more with the rest Into the west. AT THE SOUND OF THE DRUM Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair, And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear? Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough? Are you going for a soldier now? I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of red And Iâm tired of womanâs chatter, and Iâll hear the drum instead; I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow, For Iâm going for a soldier now. For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go, To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow? Iâll make you sweeter music, for Iâll swear another vow-- Are you going for a soldier now? I am going for a soldier if youâd twenty vows to make; You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break, For Iâm sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough, And Iâm going for a soldier now! THE GOOSE-GIRL I wandered lonely by the sea, As is my daily use, I saw her drive across the lea The gander and the goose. The gander and the gray, gray goose, She drove them all together; Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose, All in the wild gray weather. âO dainty maid who drive the geese Across the common wide, Turn, turn your pretty back on these And come and be my bride. I am a poet from the town, And, âmid the ladies there, There is not one would wear a crown With half your charming air!â She laughed, she shook her pretty head. âI want no poetâs hand; Go read your fairy-books,â she said, âFor this is fairy-land. My Prince comes riding oâer the leas; He fitly comes to woo, For Iâm a Princess, and my geese Were poets, once, like you!â THE PEDLAR Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly! And see if you can find him; He has blue eyes--youâll know him by,-- He wears a pack behind him. Heâs gone away--ah! many a mile Because he could not please me, And, oh! âtwill be a weary while Ere next he comes to tease me. He carries wares of every kind, Fine ribbons, silks, and laces, Bargains to rhyme with every mind, And hues to suit all faces. He has gold rings and pretty things That other maids will throng for, Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings, And fly to him I long for. Tell him to turn and come again, For once I sent him packing; He offered me a bargain then, But wit and price were lacking. I have the price he asked of me, The wit that will not weigh it; Ah! bid him come again and see How gladly I will pay it. A heart of gold he offered me As âtwere a penny fairing, And only asked a worthless fee, This heavy heart Iâm wearing. I would not then--now long and drear The white way winds behind him; Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear, But you will never find him! THE GUARDIAN ANGEL When my good-nights and prayers are said And I am safe tucked up in bed, I know my guardian angel stands And holds my soul between his hands. I cannot see his wings of light Because I keep my eyes shut tight, For, if I open them, I know My pretty angel has to go. But through the darkness I can hear His white wings rustling very near; I know it is his darling wings, _Not_ Mother folding up my things! III âSHEPHERDS ALL AND MAIDENS FAIRâ Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summerâs ripe; So wreathe your crooks with flowers; The worldâs in tune to Love and June, The days are rich in hours, In rosy hours, in golden hours-- Loveâs crown and fortune fair, So gather gold for Love to hold, And flowers for Love to wear! Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring Of pleasures speed your way; Too harsh and dry is fierce July, Too maiden-meek was May; But Love and June their old sweet tune Are singing at your ear: So learn the song and troop along To meet your shepherds dear! Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear, And gold to spend have I-- When all are gay on this June day You would not bid me sigh? You would not scorn a swain forlorn-- Each shepherd far and near Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet, As I towards my dear. No maids there be in Arcady But have their shepherds true; Must you alone despise the one Who only pipes for you? You have no ear my pipe to hear Though all for you it be; And I no eyes for her who sighs And only sings for me! A PORTRAIT Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawn Is her dainty way; Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawn Are her eyes of gray; Like the clouds in their moving white Is her breastâs soft stir; And white as the moon and bright Is the soul of her. Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green, Like the voice of a bird That sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen, So her voice is heard. And the secret her eyes withhold In my soul abides, For white as the moon and cold Is the heart she hides. THE OFFERING What will you give me for this heart of mine, No heart of gold--and yet my dearest treasure? It has its graces--it can ache and pine, And beat true time to your sweet voiceâs measure; It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure: What will you give me for this heart I bring, That holds my life, my joy, my everything? How can I ask a price, when all my prayer Is that, without return, you will but take it-- Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair, Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it, And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it? Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride: âShe held me in her hands until I died.â ENTREATY O love, let us part now! Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow, Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes. The first, involuntary, sacred kiss Still on our lips in benediction lies. O Love, be wise! Love at its best is worth no more than this-- Let us part now! O Love, let us part now! Ere yet the roses wither on my brow, Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast, Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bear The seeds of deathless anguish and unrest. To part is best. Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair-- Let us part now! THE FOREST POOL Lean down and see your little face Reflected in the forest pool, Tall foxgloves grow about the place, Forget-me-nots grow green and cool. Look deep and see the naiad rise To meet the sunshine of your eyes. Lean down and see how you are fair, How gold your hair, your mouth how red; See the leaves dance about your hair The wind has left unfilleted. What naiad of them can compare With you for good and dear and fair? Ah! look no more--the water stirs, The naiad weeps your face to see, Your beauty is more rare than hers, And you are more beloved than she. Fly! fly, before she steals the charms The pool has trusted to her arms. DISCRETION Ah, turn your pretty eyes away! You would not have me love again? Loveâs pleasure does not live a day, Immortal is Loveâs pain, And I am tired of pain. I have loved once--aye, once or twice; The pleasure died, the pain lives here; I will not look in your sweet eyes, I will not love you, Dear, Lest you should grow too dear. For I am weary and afraid. Have I not seen why life was fair, And known how good a world God made, How sweet the blossoms were, How dear the green fields were? And I have found how life was gray, A mist-hung road, a quest in vain, Until once more Love smiled my way And fooled me once again, And taught me grief again. Now I will gather no more grief; I only ask to see the sky, The budding flower, the budding leaf, And put old dreamings by, The dreams Love tortures by. For, being wise, I love no more; You, if you will, snare with those eyes Some fool who never loved before, And teach him to be wise! For why should you be wise? SPRING SONG Hereâs the Spring-time, Sweet! Earthâs green gown is new, Lambs begin to bleat, Doves begin to coo, Birds begin to woo In the wood and lane; Sweet, the tale is true Spring is here again! I have been discreet All the winter through; Now, before your feet, Blossoms let me strew. Flowers, as yet, are few; Will my lady deign Take this flower or two? Spring is here again Make the year complete, Give the Spring her due! All the flowers entreat, All the song-birds sue. âTwixt the green and blue Let Love wake and reign, Let me worship you-- Spring is here again! TOO LATE When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snare I clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers, Made him my little joy for little hours, And fed him when I had a song to spare. And then I saw how good lifeâs good things were, The kingdoms and the glories and the powers. Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers, And, when the great things wearied, Love was there. But when, within his cage, one winter day I found him lying still with folded wings, No longer fluttering, eager to be fed-- Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away, And of lifeâs countless, precious, priceless things Nothing was left but Love--and Love was dead! BY FAITH WITH THANKSGIVING Love is no bird that nests and flies, No rose that buds and blooms and dies, No star that shines and disappears, No fire whose ashes strew the years: Love is the god who lights the star, Makes music of the larkâs desire, Love tells the rose what perfumes are, And lights and feeds the deathless fire. Love is no joy that dies apace With the delight of dear embrace-- Love is no feast of wine and bread, Red-vintaged and gold-harvested: Love is the god whose touch divine On hands that clung and lips that kissed, Has turned lifeâs common bread and wine Into the Holy Eucharist. THE APPEAL All summer-time you said: âLove has no need of shelter nor of kindness, For all the flowers take pity on his blindness, And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.â âHe is a king,â you said. âThat I bow not the knee
{'title': 'Songs of love and empire by E. Nesbit', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}