Collected Poems Volume II Part 95

"_Flos Mercatorum_," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone, Rubbing down the great white horses for a supper!"

"True," boomed the Bow Bell, "his hands were his own!"

Where did he sleep? On a plump white wool-pack, Open to the moon on that vigil of St. John, Sheltered from the dew, where the black-timbered gallery Frowned above the yard of the _Two-Necked Swan_.

Early in the morning, clanged the bell of St. Martin's, Early in the morning, with a groat in his hand, Mournfully he parted with the jolly-hearted chapmen, Shouldered his bundle and walked into the _Strand_;

Walked into the _Strand_, and back again to _West Cheape_, Staring at the wizardry of every painted sign, Dazed with the steeples and the rich heraldic cornices Drinking in the colours of the Cheape like wine.

All about the booths now, the parti-coloured prentices Fluted like a flock of birds along a summer lane, Green linnets, red caps, and gay gold finches,-- _What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?_

"Buy my dainty doublets, cut on double taffetas, Buy my Paris thread," they cried, and caught him by the hand, "Laces for your Heart's-Delight, and lawns to make her love you, Cambric for her wimple, O, the finest in the land."

Ah, but he was hungry, foot-sore, weary, Knocking at the doors of the armourers that day!

_What d'ye lack?_ they asked of him; but no man lacked a prentice: When he told them what he lacked, they frowned and turned away.

Hard was his bed that night, beneath a cruel archway, Down among the hulks, with his heart growing cold!

London is a rare town, but O, the streets of London, Red though their flints be, they are not red with gold.

Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure, Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again, Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird "Let me die, if die I must, in _Red Rose Lane_."

Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness, Laid him on a door-step, and then--O, like a breath Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight, Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death.

Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn!

Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose: Then--a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows, Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes.

"Alice!" roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel, Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid, Leaning over _Red Rose Lane_, O, leaning out of Paradise, Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!

"O, mellow be thy malmsey," grunted Ben, Filling the Clerk another cup.

"The peal,"

Quoth Clopton, "is not ended; but the pause In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound, Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,--no tale, No painting, and no music, nay, no world, If G.o.d should cut their fruitful marriage-knot.

A shallow sort to-day would fain deny A h.e.l.l, sirs, to this boundless universe.

To such I say 'no h.e.l.l, no Paradise!'

Others would fain deny the topless towers Of heaven, and make this earth a h.e.l.l indeed.

To such I say, 'the unplumbed gulfs of grief Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes Ring from those unseen heights.' This earth, mid-way, Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place, Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart, Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself Simply by running up and down the scale Descend to h.e.l.l or soar to heaven. My bells Height above height, deep below deep, respond!

Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath, Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all, Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds, Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal, Innumerable as drops of April rain, Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl, And perfect in its place, a chime of law, Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic Climbs with my soul to G.o.d."

Ben looked at him, Gently. "Resume, old moralist," he said.

"On to thy marriage-bells!"

"The fairy-tales Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells.

The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of G.o.d Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain!

This was well seen of Richard Whittington; For only he that finds the London streets Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold.

Ye know the world! what was a London waif To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house, He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan.

How could he hope for more?

This marchaunt's house Was builded like a great high-gabled inn, Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim With deep-set coloured panes and ma.s.sy beams.

Its ancient eaves jutted o'er _Red Rose Lane_ Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep.

Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned To keep the Plague away,--a gloom to embalm A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye Of country lads like Whittington.

He pined For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land, The young knight would unhelm his golden locks And play the scullion, so that he might watch His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead; Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs, Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found Sunshine enough in this. But when at night He crept into the low dark vaulted den, The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn The scullion's bed of straw (and none too thick Lest he should sleep too long), he choked for breath; And, like an old man h.o.a.rding up his life, Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes Peered at him from the crannies of the wall.

Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,-- Only to fight with nightmares and to fly Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream, Hunted by horrible human souls that took The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts, Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed, That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns, And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death Under the careless homes of sleeping men.

Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war With all the powers of darkness. 'If the light Do break upon me, by the grace of G.o.d,'

So did he vow, 'O, then will I remember, Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help To build that lovelier City which is paved For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.'

Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile If, at the first, the best that he could do Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy A cat, and bring her home, under his coat By stealth (or else that termagant, the cook, Had drowned it in the water-b.u.t.t, nor deemed The water worse to drink). So did he quell First his own plague, but bettered others, too.

Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers Shared with their prentices the happy chance Of each new venture. Each might have his stake, Little or great, upon the glowing tides Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames; And every lad in London had his groat Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea.

So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called His prentices together; for, ere long, The _Unicorn_, his tall new ship, must sail Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind; Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire, Perchance a richer cargo,--rubies, pearls, Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise.

And many a moon, at least, a faerie foam Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach For old black battered hulks and tattered sails Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea.

And one flung down a groat--he had no more.

One staked a shilling, one a good French crown; And one an angel, O, light-winged enough To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought His pennyworth of wonder, So they thought, Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried 'Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!'

"Snails,' laughed the rosy marchaunt, 'but that's true!

Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat!

'Twill bring us luck!'

'Whittington! Whittington!'

Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird, Fluttered sweet Alice. 'Whittington! Richard! Quick!

Quick with your groat now for the _Unicorn_!'

'A groat!' cried Whittington, standing there aghast, With brown bare arms, still coloured by the sun, Among his pots and pans. 'Where should I find A groat? I staked my last groat in a cat!'

--'What! Have you nothing? Nothing but a cat?

Then stake the cat,' she said; and the quick fire That in a woman's mind out-runs the thought Of man, lit her grey eyes.

Whittington laughed And opened the cellar-door. Out sailed his wealth, Waving its tail, purring, and rubbing its head Now on his boots, now on the dainty shoe Of Alice, who straightway, deaf to his laughing prayers, Caught up the cat, whispered it, hugged it close, Against its grey fur leaned her glowing cheek, And carried it off in triumph.

_Red Rose Lane_ Echoed with laughter as, with amber eyes Blinking, the grey cat in a seaman's arms Went to the wharf. 'Ay, but we need a cat,'

The captain said. So, when the painted ship Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames, A grey tail waved upon the misty p.o.o.p, And Whittington had his venture on the seas.

It was a nine days' jest, and soon forgot.

But, all that year,--ah, sirs, ye know the world, For all the foolish boasting of the proud, Looks not beneath the coat of Taunton serge For Gules and Azure. A prince that comes in rags To clean your shoes and, out of his own pride, Waits for the world to paint his shield again Must wait for ever and a day.

The world Is a great hypocrite, hypocrite most of all When thus it boasts its purple pride of race, Then with eyes blind to all but pride of place Tramples the scullion's heraldry underfoot, Nay, never sees it, never dreams of it, Content to know that, here and now, his coat Is greasy....

So did Whittington find at last Such nearness was most distant; that to see her, Talk with her, serve her thus, was but to lose True sight, true hearing. He must save his life By losing it; forsake, to win, his love; Go out into the world to bring her home.

It was but labour lost to clean the shoes, And turn the jack, and scour the dripping-pan.

For every scolding blown about her ears The cook's great ladle fell upon the head Of Whittington; who, beneath her rule, became The scullery's general scapegoat. It was he That burned the pie-crust, drank the hippocras, Dinted the silver beaker....

Many a month He chafed, till his resolve took sudden shape And, out of the dark house at the peep of day, Shouldering bundle and stick again, he stole To seek his freedom, and to shake the dust Of London from his shoes....

You know the stone On Highgate, where he sate awhile to rest, With aching heart, and thought 'I shall not see Her face again.' There, as the coloured dawn Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed, A small black battered ship with tattered sails Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames Crept, side-long to a wharf.

Then, all at once, The London bells rang out a welcome home; And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high, The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars, Flooded the morning air with this refrain:--

'Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington!

_Flos Mercatorum_, thy ship hath come home!

Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise, Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro' the foam.

Turn again, Whittington, Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London!

Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest, Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee.

_Flos Mercatorum_, O, when thy faith was blindest, Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.'

So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London, Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to _Red Rose Lane_, Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,-- _What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?_

Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him, Early in the morning his labours he began: Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail, Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan.

All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured.