Songs of Childhood Part 5

"In peace!" my lord, O mark me well!

For what my jolly hound befell You shall sup twenty-fold, O!

For every tooth Of his, i'sooth, A stag in p.a.w.n I hold, O.

'Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn, Shall scare your heaths and coverts lorn, Braying 'em shrill and clear, O; But lone and still Shall lift each hill, Each valley wan and sere, O.

'Ride up you may, ride down you may, Lonely or trooped, by night or day, My hound shall haunt you ever: Bird, beast, and game Shall dread the same, The wild fish of your river.'

Her cheek is like the angry rose, Her eye with wrath and pity flows: He gazes fierce and round, O,-- 'Dear Lord!' he says, 'What loveliness To waste upon a hound, O.

'I'd give my stags, my hills and dales, My stormc.o.c.ks and my nightingales To have undone this deed, O; For deep beneath My heart is death Which for her love doth bleed, O.'

Wanders he up, wanders he down, On foot, a-horse, by night and noon: His lands are bleak and drear, O; Forsook his dales Of nightingales, Forsook his moors of deer, O.

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth; There's nothing lightsome left on earth: Only one scene is fain, O, Where far remote The moonbeams gloat, And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an eve when lone he went, Gnawing his beard in dreariment, Lo! from a thicket hidden, Lovely as flower In April hour, Steps forth a form unbidden.

'Get ye now down, Lord Aerie, I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,'

She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O; 'The hound is dead, When all is said, But love is past belief, O.

'Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see, Forlorn and still--and all for me, All for a foolish curse, O; Now here am I Come out to die, To live unlov'd is worse, O!'

In faith, this lord, in that lone dale, Hears now a sweeter nightingale, And lairs a tend'rer deer, O; His sorrow goes Like mountain snows In waters sweet and clear, O!

Let the hound bay in Shadowland, Tuning his ear to understand What voice hath tamed this Aerie; Chafe, chafe he may The stag all day, And never thirst nor weary.

Now here he smells, now there he smells, Winding his voice along the dells, Till grey flows up the morn, O; Then hies again To Lady Jane, No longer now forlorn, O.

Ay, as it were a bud, did break To loveliness for Aerie's sake, So she in beauty moving Rides at his hand Across his land, Beloved as well as loving.

AS LUCY WENT A-WALKING

As Lucy went a-walking one wintry morning fine, There sate three crows upon a bough, and three times three is nine: Then 'O!' said Lucy, in the snow, 'it's very plain to see A witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.'

Then stept she light and heedfully across the frozen snow, And plucked a bunch of elder-twigs that near a pool did grow: And, by and by, she comes to seven shadows in one place All stretched by seven poplar-trees against the sun's bright face.

She looks to left, she looks to right, and in the midst she sees A little well of water clear and frozen 'neath the trees; Then down beside its margent in the crusty snow she kneels, And hears a magic belfry a-ringing with sweet bells.

But when the belfry ceased to sound yet nothing could she see, Save only frozen water in the shadow of the tree.

But presently she lifted up her eyes along the snow, And sees a witch in brindled shawl a-frisking to and fro.

Her shoes were buckled scarlet that capered to and fro, And all her rusty locks were wreathed with twisted mistletoe; But never a dint, or mark, or print, in the whiteness for to see, Though danced she high, though danced she fast, though danced she lissomely.

It seemed 'twas diamonds in the air, or little flakes of frost; It seemed 'twas golden smoke around, or sunbeams lightly tost; It seemed an elfin music like to reeds and warblers rose: 'Nay!' Lucy said, 'it is the wind that through the branches flows.'

And as she peeps, and as she peeps, 'tis no more one, but three, And eye of bat, and downy wing of owl within the tree, And the bells of that sweet belfry a-pealing as before, And now it is not three she sees, and now it is not four.

'O! who are ye,' sweet Lucy cries, 'that in a dreadful ring, All m.u.f.fled up in brindled shawls, do caper, frisk, and spring?'

'A witch and witches, one and nine,' they straight to her reply, And looked upon her narrowly, with green and needle eye.

Then Lucy sees in clouds of gold sweet cherry-trees upgrow, And bushes of red roses that bloomed above the snow; She smells all faint the almond-boughs that blow so wild and fair, And doves with milky eyes ascend fluttering in the air.

Clear flow'rs she sees, like tulip buds, go floating by like birds, With wavering tips that warbled sweetly strange enchanted words; And as with ropes of amethyst the boughs with lamps were hung, And cl.u.s.ters of green emeralds like fruit upon them clung.

'O witches nine, ye dreadful nine, O witches seven and three!

Whence come these wondrous things that I this Christmas morning see?'

But straight, as in a clap, when she of Christmas says the word, Here is the snow, and there the sun, but never bloom nor bird;

Nor warbling flame, nor gloaming-rope of amethyst there shows, Nor bunches of green emeralds, nor belfry, well, and rose, Nor cloud of gold, nor cherry-tree, nor witch in brindled shawl, But like a dream which vanishes, so vanished were they all.

When Lucy sees, and only sees, three crows upon a bough, And earthly twigs, and bushes hidden white in driven snow, Then 'O!' said Lucy, 'three times three is nine--I plainly see Some witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.'

THE ENGLISHMAN

I met a sailor in the woods, A silver ring wore he, His hair hung black, his eyes shone blue, And thus he said to me:--

'What country, say, of this round earth, What sh.o.r.e of what salt sea, Be this, my son, I wander in, And looks so strange to me?'

Says I, 'O foreign sailorman, In England now you be, This is her wood, and this her sky, And that her roaring sea.'

He lifts his voice yet louder, 'What smell be this,' says he, 'My nose on the sharp morning air Snuffs up so greedily?'

Says I, 'It is wild roses Do smell so winsomely, And winy briar too,' says I, 'That in these thickets be.'

'And oh!' says he, 'what leetle bird Is singing in yon high tree, So every shrill and long-drawn note Like bubbles breaks in me?'

Says I, 'It is the mavis That perches in the tree, And sings so shrill, and sings so sweet, When dawn comes up the sea.'

At which he fell a-musing, And fixed his eye on me, As one alone 'twixt light and dark A spirit thinks to see

'England!' he whispers soft and harsh, 'England!' repeated he, 'And briar, and rose, and mavis, A-singing in yon high tree.

'Ye speak me true, my leetle son, So--so, it came to me, A-drifting landwards on a spar, And grey dawn on the sea.

'Ay, ay, I could not be mistook; I knew them leafy trees, I knew that land so witcherie sweet, And that old noise of seas.

'Though here I've sailed a score of years, And heard 'em, dream or wake, Lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek, On sand and coral break;

'"Yet now, my leetle son," says I, A-drifting on the wave, "That land I see so safe and green Is England, I believe.