The Dales of Arcady Part 4

BEGGAR'S GOLD

I

Around me sounded effort manifold, As creaking cranes swung ponderously slow, At intervals I heard the hiss of steam, The rhythmic beating of an iron's blow: I thought,--this energy will sometime be Trans.m.u.ted into that which all men crave, The magic metal, Gold, great t.i.tan Gold, Whom men make monarch when he should be slave.

And as I mused, above the jarring clang, I heard a faint sweet sound of flutterings, A tender movement, musical and low, As of a fledgeling trying its young wings.

A gentle zephyr blew the cas.e.m.e.nt wide, A woman glided past the tapestry, With russet golden hair, all gowned in gold.

She looked about her hesitatingly; I heard her voice as if thro' beechen boughs, Caressive as a moor-born singing burn, And thro' it ran the lisping of the pines, The lovely lilt of some gold-dying fern.

II

(She sang): "Ye seek the gold of the city; Ye cheat, ye brag, ye lie; In quest of its sordid yellow Ye hunger until ye die.

I offer ye gold for the having: The mint of October's glow, To warm your souls with its wonder, Your souls, in their greed-bound snow.

Gold of the hedges I offer, Marvellous gold of the ghyll, Rowan-red gold from the forest, Take from me, ye who will.

Gold ye need for your bodies, O men of the smoke-chained town.

But know, that my gold's for the asking, Gold for a Beggar's Crown."

III

She silently sped As a star at morn In the saffron track, Of the day, dew-born, Leaving a longing Intensely strong To own for myself The gold of the song.

The city I'll leave With footstep bold, To seek for myself The Beggar's Gold.

IV

I woke and found a leaf upon the floor, And two more golden leaves outside the door.

AIREDALE.

ON EARLY RISING

THE LOVER:

Why not rise with dawn, my Lady?

Why miss these sweet hours?

Come with me: the ghyll is shady, Carpeted with flowers; Why miss these sweet hours?

Now thou liest a-bed, my jewel, How canst thou still sleep?

To encase thyself is cruel-- Beauty thus to keep.

How canst thou still sleep?

HIS LADY:

At this hour, my simple lover, I prefer to rest Than to watch the tireless plover Rise from dewy nest; I prefer to rest.

Beauty such as mine, my lover, (This I know is right) Even thou wilt soon discover Is more meet for night (This I know is right).

THE SONG-MAKER:

In the daytime chirp the thrushes; But the nightingale Waits until the moonlit hushes To pour forth her tale; Wiser nightingale!

JEWELS

O! Gold I lack; I am a man Who cannot give as others can; No costly gems of value rare Are mine to give, my Lady Fair!

Yet would I give, and of my best, So delve the kingdom of mine eyes: What say'st thou to a rope of pearls Strung from the cirro-clouded skies?

A sunlit beck, just after rain, Should from its ripples lend a chain Of sparkling diamonds, very meet To grace thy wrist, my Lady Sweet.

A peaty tarn, lost 'mong the hills, Of beryl tint should make a ring; The moors should yield a coronet Of amethyst, from summer ling.

_Rubies?_ Already thou hast two!

They are the gems for which I sue.

RIBBLESDALE.

BARGAINING

There are many, many forests lying north, south, east, and west, There are many, many rivers moving slowly to the sea, But there's a wood of budding beech that claims the heart of me, And there's a little singing beck that falls from heathered crest.

O! I would give the universe to own that singing stream, And watch the stars a-hiding from the rosy-fingered morn, While cuckoos wake the fellside, and daffodils are born-- O! any one can have the world, so I may keep my stream--

Yet would I barter beechen wood and little singing beck If I could fold my arms once more around my sweetheart's neck.

NIDDERDALE.

SONG OF GOOD-BYE

The ship is speeding fast from out the bay, Instead of thine, I feel a kiss of spray; My face is lashed by salt winds from the sea, My eyes are wet with parting now from thee.

O Husband Sweetheart! send to me a thought-- Some loving word, perchance my lips have taught!

The evening fades to purple, darkly blue, The air is chill, a few white stars creep through The steely buckler of the northern sky; One lonely sound recurs--a sew-mew's cry.

O Husband Sweetheart! send thy heart to me Across this tireless, surging, tossing sea!