The Big Book of Classic Fantasy

by The Big Book of Classic Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  Yet my mouth waters still;

  To-morrow night I will

  Buy more:” and kissed her:

  “Have done with sorrow;

  I’ll bring you plums to-morrow

  Fresh on their mother twigs,

  Cherries worth getting;

  You cannot think what figs

  My teeth have met in,

  What melons icy-cold

  Piled on a dish of gold

  Too huge for me to hold,

  What peaches with a velvet nap,

  Pellucid grapes without one seed:

  Odorous indeed must be the mead

  Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink

  With lilies at the brink,

  And sugar-sweet their sap.”

  Golden head by golden head,

  Like two pigeons in one nest

  Folded in each other’s wings,

  They lay down in their curtained bed:

  Like two blossoms on one stem,

  Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,

  Like two wands of ivory

  Tipped with gold for awful kings.

  Moon and stars gazed in at them,

  Wind sang to them lullaby,

  Lumbering owls forbore to fly,

  Not a bat flapped to and fro

  Round their rest:

  Cheek to cheek and breast to breast

  Locked together in one nest.

  Early in the morning

  When the first cock crowed his warning,

  Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,

  Laura rose with Lizzie:

  Fetched in honey, milked the cows,

  Aired and set to rights the house,

  Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,

  Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,

  Next churned butter, whipped up cream,

  Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;

  Talked as modest maidens should:

  Lizzie with an open heart,

  Laura in an absent dream,

  One content, one sick in part;

  One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,

  One longing for the night.

  At length slow evening came:

  They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;

  Lizzie most placid in her look,

  Laura most like a leaping flame.

  They drew the gurgling water from its deep;

  Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,

  Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes

  Those furthest loftiest crags;

  Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,

  No wilful squirrel wags,

  The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”

  But Laura loitered still among the rushes

  And said the bank was steep.

  And said the hour was early still

  The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill:

  Listening ever, but not catching

  The customary cry,

  “Come buy, come buy,”

  With its iterated jingle

  Of sugar-baited words:

  Not for all her watching

  Once discerning even one goblin

  Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;

  Let alone the herds

  That used to tramp along the glen,

  In groups or single,

  Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

  Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;

  I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:

  You should not loiter longer at this brook:

  Come with me home.

  The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,

  Each glowworm winks her spark,

  Let us get home before the night grows dark:

  For clouds may gather

  Though this is summer weather,

  Put out the lights and drench us through;

  Then if we lost our way what should we do?”

  Laura turned cold as stone

  To find her sister heard that cry alone,

  That goblin cry,

  “Come buy our fruits, come buy.”

  Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?

  Must she no more such succous pasture find,

  Gone deaf and blind?

  Her tree of life drooped from the root:

  She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;

  But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,

  Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;

  So crept to bed, and lay

  Silent till Lizzie slept;

  Then sat up in a passionate yearning,

  And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept

  As if her heart would break.

  Day after day, night after night,

  Laura kept watch in vain

  In sullen silence of exceeding pain.

  She never caught again the goblin cry:

  “Come buy, come buy;”—

  She never spied the goblin men

  Hawking their fruits along the glen:

  But when the noon waxed bright

  Her hair grew thin and grey;

  She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn

  To swift decay and burn

  Her fire away.

  One day remembering her kernel-stone

  She set it by a wall that faced the south;

  Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,

  Watched for a waxing shoot,

  But there came none;

  It never saw the sun,

  It never felt the trickling moisture run:

  While with sunk eyes and faded mouth

  She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees

  False waves in desert drouth

  With shade of leaf-crowned trees,

  And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

  She no more swept the house,

  Tended the fowls or cows,

  Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,

  Brought water from the brook:

  But sat down listless in the chimney-nook

  And would not eat.

  Tender Lizzie could not bear

  To watch her sister’s cankerous care

  Yet not to share.

  She night and morning

  Caught the goblins’ cry:

  “Come buy our orchard fruits,

  Come buy, come buy:”—

  Beside the brook, along the glen,

  She heard the tramp of goblin men,

  The voice and stir

  Poor Laura could not hear;

  Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,

  But feared to pay too dear.

  She thought of Jeanie in her grave,

  Who should have been a bride;

  But who for joys brides hope to have

  Fell sick and died

  In her gay prime,

  In earliest Winter time

  With the first glazing rime,

  With the first snow-fall of crisp Winter time.

  Till Laura dwindling

  Seemed knocking at Death’s door:

  Then Lizzie weighed no more

  Better and worse;

  But put a silver penny in her purse,

  Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze

  At twilight, halted by the brook:

  And for the first time in her life

  Began to listen and look.

  Laughed every goblin


  When they spied her peeping:

  Came towards her hobbling,

  Flying, running, leaping,

  Puffing and blowing,

  Chuckling, clapping, crowing,

  Clucking and gobbling,

  Mopping and mowing,

  Full of airs and graces,

  Pulling wry faces,

  Demure grimaces,

  Cat-like and rat-like,

  Ratel- and wombat-like,

  Snail-paced in a hurry,

  Parrot-voiced and whistler,

  Helter skelter, hurry skurry,

  Chattering like magpies,

  Fluttering like pigeons,

  Gliding like fishes,—

  Hugged her and kissed her:

  Squeezed and caressed her:

  Stretched up their dishes,

  Panniers, and plates:

  “Look at our apples

  Russet and dun,

  Bob at our cherries,

  Bite at our peaches,

  Citrons and dates,

  Grapes for the asking,

  Pears red with basking

  Out in the sun,

  Plums on their twigs;

  Pluck them and suck them,

  Pomegranates, figs.”—

  “Good folk,” said Lizzie,

  Mindful of Jeanie:

  “Give me much and many:”—

  Held out her apron,

  Tossed them her penny.

  “Nay, take a seat with us,

  Honour and eat with us,”

  They answered grinning:

  “Our feast is but beginning.

  Night yet is early,

  Warm and dew-pearly,

  Wakeful and starry:

  Such fruits as these

  No man can carry;

  Half their bloom would fly,

  Half their dew would dry,

  Half their flavour would pass by.

  Sit down and feast with us,

  Be welcome guest with us,

  Cheer you and rest with us.”—

  “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits

  At home alone for me:

  So without further parleying,

  If you will not sell me any

  Of your fruits though much and many,

  Give me back my silver penny

  I tossed you for a fee.”—

  They began to scratch their pates,

  No longer wagging, purring,

  But visibly demurring,

  Grunting and snarling.

  One called her proud,

  Cross-grained, uncivil;

  Their tones waxed loud,

  Their looks were evil.

  Lashing their tails

  They trod and hustled her,

  Elbowed and jostled her,

  Clawed with their nails,

  Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,

  Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,

  Twitched her hair out by the roots,

  Stamped upon her tender feet,

  Held her hands and squeezed their fruits

  Against her mouth to make her eat.

  White and golden Lizzie stood,

  Like a lily in a flood,—

  Like a rock of blue-veined stone

  Lashed by tides obstreperously,—

  Like a beacon left alone

  In a hoary roaring sea,

  Sending up a golden fire,—

  Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree

  White with blossoms honey-sweet

  Sore beset by wasp and bee,—

  Like a royal virgin town

  Topped with gilded dome and spire

  Close beleaguered by a fleet

  Mad to tug her standard down.

  One may lead a horse to water,

  Twenty cannot make him drink.

  Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,

  Coaxed and fought her,

  Bullied and besought her,

  Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,

  Kicked and knocked her,

  Mauled and mocked her,

  Lizzie uttered not a word;

  Would not open lip from lip

  Lest they should cram a mouthful in:

  But laughed in heart to feel the drip

  Of juice that syrupped all her face,

  And lodged in dimples of her chin,

  And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.

  At last the evil people,

  Worn out by her resistance,

  Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit

  Along whichever road they took,

  Not leaving root or stone or shoot;

  Some writhed into the ground,

  Some dived into the brook

  With ring and ripple,

  Some scudded on the gale without a sound,

  Some vanished in the distance.

  In a smart, ache, tingle,

  Lizzie went her way;

  Knew not was it night or day;

  Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,

  Threaded copse and dingle,

  And heard her penny jingle

  Bouncing in her purse,—

  Its bounce was music to her ear.

  She ran and ran

  As if she feared some goblin man

  Dogged her with gibe or curse

  Or something worse:

  But not one goblin skurried after,

  Nor was she pricked by fear;

  The kind heart made her windy-paced

  That urged her home quite out of breath with haste

  And inward laughter.

  She cried “Laura,” up the garden,

  “Did you miss me?

  Come and kiss me.

  Never mind my bruises,

  Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices

  Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,

  Goblin pulp and goblin dew.

  Eat me, drink me, love me;

  Laura, make much of me:

  For your sake I have braved the glen

  And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

  Laura started from her chair,

  Flung her arms up in the air,

  Clutched her hair:

  “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted

  For my sake the fruit forbidden?

  Must your light like mine be hidden,

  Your young life like mine be wasted,

  Undone in mine undoing,

  And ruined in my ruin,

  Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?”—

  She clung about her sister,

  Kissed and kissed and kissed her:

  Tears once again

  Refreshed her shrunken eyes,

  Dropping like rain

  After long sultry drouth;

  Shaking with anguish, fear, and pain,

  She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

  Her lips began to scorch,

  That juice was wormwood to her tongue,

  She loathed the feast:

  Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,

  Rent all her robe, and wrung

  Her hands in lamentable haste,

  And beat her breast.

  Her locks streamed like the torch

  Borne by a racer at full speed,

  Or like the mane of horses in their flight,

  Or like an eagle when she stems the light

 
Straight toward the sun,

  Or like a caged thing freed,

  Or like a flying flag when armies run.

  Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,

  Met the fire smouldering there

  And overbore its lesser flame;

  She gorged on bitterness without a name:

  Ah! fool, to choose such part

  Of soul-consuming care!

  Sense failed in the mortal strife:

  Like the watch-tower of a town

  Which an earthquake shatters down,

  Like a lightning-stricken mast,

  Like a wind-uprooted tree

  Spun about,

  Like a foam-topped waterspout

  Cast down headlong in the sea,

  She fell at last;

  Pleasure past and anguish past,

  Is it death or is it life?

  Life out of death.

  That night long Lizzie watched by her,

  Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,

  Felt for her breath,

  Held water to her lips, and cooled her face

  With tears and fanning leaves:

  But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,

  And early reapers plodded to the place

  Of golden sheaves,

  And dew-wet grass

  Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,

  And new buds with new day

  Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,

  Laura awoke as from a dream,

  Laughed in the innocent old way,

  Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;

  Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey,

  Her breath was sweet as May

  And light danced in her eyes.

  Days, weeks, months, years

  Afterwards, when both were wives

  With children of their own;

  Their mother-hearts beset with fears,

  Their lives bound up in tender lives;

  Laura would call the little ones

  And tell them of her early prime,

  Those pleasant days long gone

  Of not-returning time:

  Would talk about the haunted glen,

  The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,

  Their fruits like honey to the throat

  But poison in the blood;

  (Men sell not such in any town:)

  Would tell them how her sister stood

  In deadly peril to do her good,

  And win the fiery antidote:

  Then joining hands to little hands

  Would bid them cling together,

  “For there is no friend like a sister

  In calm or stormy weather;

  To cheer one on the tedious way,

  To fetch one if one goes astray,