Andromeda and Other Poems Part 9

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown Can never come over again, Sweet wife: No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold, And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and old Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife; To its work in the morning gay.

Andernach, 1851.

THE UGLY PRINCESS

My parents bow, and lead them forth, For all the crowd to see-- Ah well! the people might not care To cheer a dwarf like me.

They little know how I could love, How I could plan and toil, To swell those drudges' scanty gains, Their mites of rye and oil.

They little know what dreams have been My playmates, night and day; Of equal kindness, helpful care, A mother's perfect sway.

Now earth to earth in convent walls, To earth in churchyard sod: I was not good enough for man, And so am given to G.o.d.

Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.

SONNET

The baby sings not on its mother's breast; Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; Nor I by thine: but let us only part, Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, As having uttered all, must speak again-- O stunted thoughts! O chill and fettered rhyme Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, Losing its proper home, can find no rest: So, like a child who whiles away the time With dance and carol till the eventide, Watching its mother homeward through the glen; Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, Tells to his listening mate within the nest The wonder of his star-entranced heart Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill-- Forth all my being bubbles into song; And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.

Bertrich, 1851

THE SWAN-NECK

Evil sped the battle play On the Pope Calixtus' day; Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.

Harold Earl, shot over shield, Lay along the autumn weald; Slaughter such was never none Since the Ethelings England won.

Thither Lady Githa came, Weeping sore for grief and shame; How may she her first-born tell?

Frenchmen stript him where he fell, Gashed and marred his comely face; Who can know him in his place?

Up and spake two brethren wise, 'Youngest hearts have keenest eyes; Bird which leaves its mother's nest, Moults its pinions, moults its crest.

Let us call the Swan-neck here, She that was his leman dear; She shall know him in this stound; Foot of wolf, and scent of hound, Eye of hawk, and wing of dove, Carry woman to her love.'

Up and spake the Swan-neck high, 'Go! to all your thanes let cry How I loved him best of all, I whom men his leman call; Better knew his body fair Than the mother which him bare.

When ye lived in wealth and glee Then ye scorned to look on me; G.o.d hath brought the proud ones low After me afoot to go.'

Rousing erne and sallow glede, Rousing gray wolf off his feed, Over franklin, earl, and thane, Heaps of mother-naked slain, Round the red field tracing slow, Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow; Never blushed nor turned away, Till she found him where he lay; Clipt him in her armes fair, Wrapt him in her yellow hair, Bore him from the battle-stead, Saw him laid in pall of lead, Took her to a minster high, For Earl Harold's soul to cry.

Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver; Jesu rest his soul for ever; Angles all from thrall deliver; Miserere Domine.

Eversley, 1851.

A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE

I heard an Eagle crying all alone Above the vineyards through the summer night, Among the skeletons of robber towers: Because the ancient eyrie of his race Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men; And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour, And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun For joy at their own riches:--So, I thought, The great devourers of the earth shall sit, Idle and impotent, they know not why, Down-staring from their barren height of state On nations grown too wise to slay and slave, The puppets of the few; while peaceful lore And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth, With wonders which they fear and hate, as he, The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.

On the Rhine, 1851.

THE LONGBEARDS' SAGA. A.D. 400

Over the camp-fires Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank, Warm in the snow trench: Sagamen heard I there, Men of the Longbeards, Cunning and ancient, Honey-sweet-voiced.

Scaring the wolf cub, Scaring the horn-owl, Shaking the snow-wreaths Down from the pine-boughs, Up to the star roof Rang out their song.

Singing how Winil men, Over the ice-floes Sledging from Scanland Came unto Scoring; Singing of Gambara, Freya's beloved, Mother of Ayo, Mother of Ibor.

Singing of Wendel men, Ambri and a.s.si; How to the Winilfolk Went they with war-words,-- 'Few are ye, strangers, And many are we: Pay us now toll and fee, Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves: Else at the raven's meal Bide the sharp bill's doom.'

Clutching the dwarfs work then, Clutching the bullock's sh.e.l.l, Girding gray iron on, Forth fared the Winils all, Fared the Alruna's sons, Ayo and Ibor.

Mad at heart stalked they: Loud wept the women all, Loud the Alruna wife; Sore was their need.

Out of the morning land, Over the snow-drifts, Beautiful Freya came, Tripping to Scoring.

White were the moorlands, And frozen before her: Green were the moorlands, And blooming behind her.

Out of her gold locks Shaking the spring flowers, Out of her garments Shaking the south wind, Around in the birches Awaking the throstles, And making chaste housewives all Long for their heroes home, Loving and love-giving, Came she to Scoring.

Came unto Gambara, Wisest of Valas,-- 'Vala, why weepest thou?

Far in the wide-blue, High up in the Elfin-home, Heard I thy weeping.'

'Stop not my weeping, Till one can fight seven.

Sons have I, heroes tall, First in the sword-play; This day at the Wendels' hands Eagles must tear them.

Their mothers, thrall-weary, Must grind for the Wendels.'

Wept the Alruna wife; Kissed her fair Freya:-- 'Far off in the morning land, High in Valhalla, A window stands open; Its sill is the snow-peaks, Its posts are the waterspouts, Storm-rack its lintel; Gold cloud-flakes above Are piled for the roofing, Far up to the Elfin-home, High in the wide-blue.

Smiles out each morning thence Odin Allfather; From under the cloud-eaves Smiles out on the heroes, Smiles on chaste housewives all, Smiles on the brood-mares, Smiles on the smiths' work: And theirs is the sword-luck, With them is the glory,-- So Odin hath sworn it,-- Who first in the morning Shall meet him and greet him.'

Still the Alruna wept:-- 'Who then shall greet him?

Women alone are here: Far on the moorlands Behind the war-lindens, In vain for the bill's doom Watch Winil heroes all, One against seven.'

Sweetly the Queen laughed:-- 'Hear thou my counsel now; Take to thee cunning, Beloved of Freya.

Take thou thy women-folk, Maidens and wives: Over your ankles Lace on the white war-hose; Over your bosoms Link up the hard mail-nets; Over your lips Plait long tresses with cunning;-- So war-beasts full-bearded King Odin shall deem you, When off the gray sea-beach At sunrise ye greet him.'

Night's son was driving His golden-haired horses up; Over the eastern firths High flashed their manes.

Smiled from the cloud-eaves out Allfather Odin, Waiting the battle-sport: Freya stood by him.

'Who are these heroes tall,-- l.u.s.ty-limbed Longbeards?

Over the swans' bath Why cry they to me?

Bones should be crashing fast, Wolves should be full-fed, Where such, mad-hearted, Swing hands in the sword-play.'

Sweetly laughed Freya:-- 'A name thou hast given them, Shames neither thee nor them, Well can they wear it.

Give them the victory, First have they greeted thee; Give them the victory, Yokefellow mine!