The Dales of Arcady Part 8

'Mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs, The piper sat. Two fierce-horned rams Made a fleecy cushion whereon he sat, And a sleeping ewe made a creamy mat For his hoofed feet. His music ceased.

Green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleased As they lit on our forms:

"_O! Pan, great Pan!

This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span, And she would learn of the singing seasons'

Wonderful featness; of all the reasons.

The hill and the wood and the rippling rill The air with different melodies fill; Where bonnibel April latest was sent, When May filled the world with her wonderment!

Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call?

The opening notes of a festival To jubilate the reign of the summer Beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer.

O Pan! I bring A mortal whose soul is afire to sing._"

Pan smiled--a smile like a twisted oak-- Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke, "Evoe, great Pan," sang the lark on high, "Evoe, great Pan," from the uttermost sky; I drew near and stood beside his knee: He handed his reeded flute to me, And kept his eyes, of a forest green, On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween, He knew that my amateur hands were weak, For the spirit of me was meek, so meek, And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee.

My masterful Lover whispered to me, "_Put your lips to the flute with mine, Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine._"

And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth, A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth.

Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn: And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred).

"Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man."

The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoe, great Pan!"

The rivers sang deeply, "Evoe, great Pan!"

And whisperingly I, "Evoe, great Pan!"

SECOND DAY

The rose-trees show but a tuft of green Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been, But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth: How the small buds come to the light by stealth Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife Leads every browny-bare branch to life.

Slowly I pa.s.sed thro' the rustic gate, Where wine-red roses will hold June fete; The wind stole out from the blossoming row Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low:

"_Are you content to be bound by a wall, E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful?

Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall, Always it is, and it hath been, a wall.

'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket, But what can it know of the wild grown thicket That grows where its pathway may never wander: Out of this garden--the blue land yonder?_"

And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran, "Evoe, Evoe, Evoe, great Pan!"

Then my Lover lifted me up in his arms, And swiftly arose. How the grey-roofed farms Receded into the cup-like earth!

And I chanted a canzone of Springtime and Birth, Which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow, Who flew beside us o'er height and hollow, Till others came from their home of the Sun, And the farm-folk cried, "Dear Summer's begun."

Hundreds and thousands followed our flight-- ALL ENGLAND WILL HAVE A SWALLOW TO-NIGHT.

By the old elm's portal of Arcady My Lover alighted and whispered to me, "O lily of laughter! O sister of flowers!

Wander alone in Arcadian bowers, And I will return when the sun goes down, And wing you home to your grey, grey town.

I kiss your little white hands and feet: Farewell!" And he rose, on wings so fleet Over the nests in the cradling larch, Over the bow of the rainbow's arch.

Where conifers grow in fine profusion, And birches quiver in sweet confusion, Where hawthorn waits with a danseuse grace To burst on the scene with her milk-white face, And pirouette near some stately spruce, Scattering around him pearly dews, Where rabbits scamper thro' gra.s.ses lush, And a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush, I journeyed on, till the sun began His westering course.

"Evoe, great Pan!

Never a note of your pipings to-day Has guided my steps thro' the sylvan way.

O! where must I seek in this Paradise?"

"Evoe, Evoe," a linnet sighs, "Seek where the sisterly marshes are, Where the marigold twinkles, a golden star, Where willow and alder hide the river, Where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver."

The sky showed pink thro' the branches grey, And then I heard, as if far away, A tremulous song, a music of fears That was strung together by trills of tears, A quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves, And the hullets called from some distant eaves.

I found Pan crouched by the river's edge, His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge, And I listened his plaint.

"O great G.o.d Pan, You sing with the broken heart of a man!

Your song is of Syrinx, who, aeons ago, Escaped from your loving. Alas! that you know The music of love, and the music of lack, And you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,-- But I would learn of merrier things: The melody murmurs of fluttering wings, The secrets that fill the nightingaled glades, The music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades."

He piped for a minute, then, turning to me, With a wry, queer smile, said: "In Arcady No song goes forth to the listening earth That comes not thro' travail and tears to birth: The river weeps as it leaves the fell, And the note cries out as it mourns the bell; The bird that praises the young, fair dawn, Sings of his loss on the twilit lawn, And those that hymn of the coming spring Lament for her too, when she taketh wing.

The song of songs is of Death and of Love-- I sing of Syrinx, my own ... lost ... love."

He piped again, and the blue mists frail Swayed in the dusk to the tender wail, And I dreamed--till I felt on my damp, moist hair, My Love's cool hand, and his whisper, "_Fair_,"

Then I felt his arms, and I knew the skies, Whilst over the mountains I saw Dawn arise, And another sweet day its course began, While the hidden stars sang, "Evoe, great Pan!"

And the lark in the blue, "Evoe, great Pan!"

And wistfully I, "Evoe, great Pan!"

A WAR-TIME GRACE

Dear G.o.d, your rain and shining sun Have all their lovely duties done: The rain makes grow the golden wheat And so provides the bread we eat.

The cow gives us the milk we drink Because she loves your sun, I think.

Please, grant that other children may Have milk and bread enough this day.

NIDDERDALE.

QUEEN MAB'S AWAKENING

SCENE: _The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale_.

QUEEN MAB _lies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. After a little yawn she discontentedly gazes at_ THE THRUSH _who is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her._

QUEEN MAB (_almost peevishly for a Queen_):

Thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber, The spring still tarries, and I would not wake To live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights; To watch the weeping rain, until I too Would mix my tears with hers. To see the hills Bow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail, To hear the strong trees groan.

I will not wake.

THE THRUSH (_practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse_):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab!

Listen my lay!

A windflower leapt In the hedge to-day.

One of thy dimples Lent its mirth To lessen the gloom Of the snow-tired earth.

A white-faced flower's In the hedge to-day, Queen Mab! Queen Mab!

Listen my lay!

QUEEN MAB (_impetuously_):

Please, hush thy noisy song a little while.