by Edith Nesbit
From pillage of the poor, I wis —
That gold was mine, and mine this is!
“Your King has cursed the usurer’s gold,
He gives it to me for my fee!
Your church is builded, but behold
Your church is fair for me — for me!
Who robs the poor to me is given;
Impenitent and unforgiven,
His church is built for hell, not heaven!”
Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear,
And all men stood as turned to stone;
Each man beheld through dews of fear
A face — his own — yet not his own;
His own face, darkened, lost, debased,
With hell’s own signet stamped and traced,
And all the God in it effaced.
A crash like thunder shook the walls,
A flame like lightning shot them through:
“Fly, fly before the judgment falls,
And all the stones be fallen on you!”
And as we fled we saw bright gleams
Of fire leap out ‘mid joists and beams.
Our church! Oh, love — oh, hopes — oh, dreams!
We stood without — a pallid throng —
And as the flame leaped high and higher,
Shrill winds we heard that rushed along
And fanned the transports of the fire.
The sky grew black; against the sky
The blue and scarlet flames leaped high,
And cries as of lost souls wailed by.
The church in glowing vesture stood,
The lead ran down as it were wax,
The great stones cracked and burned like wood,
The wood caught fire and flamed like flax:
A horrid chequered light and shade,
By smoke and flame alternate made,
Upon men’s upturned faces played.
Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire —
A blackened ruin — fell and lay.
The very earth about caught fire,
And flame-tongues licked along the clay.
The fire did neither stay nor spare
Till the foundations were laid bare
To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air.
There in the sight of men it lay,
Our church that we had made so fair!
A heap of ashes white and gray,
With sparks still gleaming here and there.
The sun came out again, and shone
On all our loving work undone —
Our church destroyed, our labour gone!
Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no!
The hands that builded built aright:
The men who loved and laboured so,
Their church is built in heaven’s height!
In every stone a glittering gem,
Gold in the gold Jerusalem —
The church their love built waits for them.
LOVE IN JUNE.
Through the glowing meadows aflame
With buttercup gold I came
To the green, still heart of the wood.
A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed,
The hazel-stems grew close,
Like leaves round the heart of a rose,
Round the still, green nest that I chose.
Then I gathered the bracken that grew
In a fairy forest all round,
And I laid it in heaps on the ground
With grass and blossoms and leaves.
I gathered the summer in sheaves,
And pale, rare roses a few,
And spread out a carpet meet
For the touch of my lady’s feet.
I waited; the wood was still;
Only one little brown bird
On a hazel swayed and stirred
With the impulse of his song;
And I waited, and time was long.
Then I heard a step on the grass
In the path where the others pass,
And a voice like a voice in a dream;
And I saw a glory, a gleam,
A flash of white through the green
(Her arms and her gown are white);
And the summer sighed her name
As she and the sunshine came:
O sun and blue sky and delight!
O eyes and lips of my queen!
What was done there or said
No one will ever know,
For nobody saw or heard
Save one little, brown, bright bird
Who swayed on a twig overhead,
And he will never betray;
But all who pass by that way,
As they near the spot where we lay
Among the blossoms and grass
Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick
(Though it lies out of reach, out of sight
Of the path where the world may pass),
Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick
In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers,
That rhymes with the summer and sun,
With the lover to win or won,
With the wild-flower crown of delight,
The crown of love that was ours.
THE GARDEN.
My garden was lovely to see,
For all things fair,
Sweet flowers and blossoms rare,
I had planted there.
There were pinks and lilies and stocks,
Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue,
And clematis white and blue,
And pansies and daisies and phlox.
And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady,
And all things were ready to greet my lady
On the Life’s-love-crowning day
When she should come
To her lover’s home,
To give herself to me.
I saw the red of the roses —
The royal roses that bloomed for her sake.
“They shall lie,” I said, “where my heart’s hopes lie:
They shall droop on her heart and die.”
I dreamed in the orchard-closes:
“’Tis here we will walk in the July days,
When the paths and the lawn are ablaze;
We will walk here, and look at our life’s great bliss:
And thank God for this”.
I leaned where the jasmine white
Wreathed all my window round:
“Here we will lean,
I and my queen,
And look out on the broad moonlight.
For there shall be moonlight — bright —
On my wedding-night.”
She never saw the flowers
That were hers from their first sweet hours.
The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease
Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn.
Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose,
They were gathered — to honour and sorrow born.
They lay round her, touched her close.
The jasmine stars — white stars, that about our window their faint
light shed,
Lay round her head.
And the white, white roses lay on her breast,
And a long, white lily lay in her hand.
They lie by her — rest with her rest;
But I, unhonoured, unblest —
I stand outside,
In the ruined garden solitude —
Where she never stood —
On the trim green sod
Which she never trod;
And the red, red roses grow and blow, —
As if any one cared
How they fared!
And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand
And see the Angel with flaming sword —
Life’s pitiless Lord —
And I know I never may pass.
Alas! alas!
O Rose! my rose!
I never may reach the pla
ce where she grows,
A rose in the garden of God.
PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES.
O God, let there be rain!
Rain, till this sky of gray
That covers us every day
Be utterly wept away,
Let there be rain, we pray,
Till the sky be washed blue again
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain,
For the sky hangs heavy with pain,
And we, who walk upon earth,
We find our days not of worth;
None blesses the day of our birth,
We question of death’s day in vain, —
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain
Till the full-fed earth complain.
Yea, though it sweep away
The seeds sown yesterday
And beat down the blossoms of May
And ruin the border gay:
In storm let this gray noon wane,
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain
Till the rivers rise a-main!
Though the waters go over us quite
And cover us up from the light
And whelm us away in the night
And the flowers of our life be slain,
O God, let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain,
Out of the gray sky, rain!
To wash the earth and to wash the sky
And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh
In the gray of a sordid satiety.
Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High,
And some day send us the sun again.
O God, let there be rain!
A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE.
Squalid street after squalid street,
Endless rows of them, each the same,
Black dust under your weary feet,
Dust upon every face you meet,
Dust in their hearts, too, — or so it seems —
Dust in the place of dreams.
Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,
Here men hardly have heard her name.
Work is the end and aim of their lives —
Work, work, work! for their children and wives;
Work for a life which, when it is won,
Is the saddest thing ‘neath the sun!
Work — one dark and incessant round
In black dull workshops, out of the light;
Work that others’ ease may abound,
Work that delight for them may be found,
Work without hope, without pause, without peace,
That only in death can cease.
Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,
What of these men, at work in the night?
God will ask you what you have done;
Their lives be required of you — every one —
Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,
While they did your work — in hell!
LONDON’S VOICES SPEAK TO TWO SOULS — WHO THUS REPLY:
I.
In all my work, in all the children’s play,
I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;
It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear
Its never-ending wail, by night and day.
So many millions — is it vain to pray
That all may win such peace as I have here,
With books, and work, and little children dear? —
That flowers like mine may grow along their way?
Through all my happy life I hear the cry,
The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,
And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.
I can do nothing — even hope is vain
That the bright light of peace and purity
In those lost souls may ever shine again!
II.
‘Mid pine woods’ whisper and the hum of bees
I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:
“Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.
Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!”
I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,
And came to do the little best I could
For these, God’s poor; and, oh, my God, I would
I had a thousand lives to give for these!
What can one hand do ‘gainst a world of wrong?
Yet, when the voice said, “Come!” how could I stay?
The foe is mighty, and the battle long
(And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),
And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;
But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.
THE SICK JOURNALIST.
Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!
One’s heart and one’s eyes on fire,
And never a spark in one’s brain.
The stupid paper and ink,
That might be turned into gold,
Lie here unused
Since one’s brain refused
To do its tricks — as of old.
One can suffer still, indeed,
But one cannot think any more.
There’s no fire in the grate,
No food on the plate,
And the East-wind shrieks through the door.
The sunshine grins in the street:
It used to cheer me like wine,
Now it only quickens my brain’s sick beat;
And the children are crying for bread to eat
And I cannot write a line!
Molly, my pet — don’t cry,
Father can’t write if you do —
And anyhow, if you only knew,
It’s hard enough as it is.
There, give old daddy a kiss,
And cuddle down on the floor;
We’ll have some dinner by-and-by.
Now, fool, try! Try once more!
Hold your head tight in your hands,
Bring your will to bear!
The children are starving — your little ones —
While you sit fooling there.
Beth, with her golden hair;
Moll, with her rough, brown head —
Here they are — see!
Against your knee,
Waiting there to be fed! —
I cannot bear their eyes.
Their soft little kisses burn —
They will cry again
In vain, in vain,
For the food that I cannot earn.
If I could only write
Just a dozen pages or so
On “The Prospects of Trade,” or “The Irish Question,” or “Why are
Wages so Low?” —
The printers are waiting for copy now,
I’ve had my next week’s screw,
There’ll be nothing more till I’ve written something,
Oh, God! what am I to do?
If I could only write!
The paper glares up white
Like the cursed white of the heavy stone
Under which she lies alone;
And the ink is black like death,
And the room and the window are black.
Molly, Molly — the sun’s gone out,
Cannot you fetch it back?
Did I frighten my little ones?
Never mind, daddy dropped asleep —
Cuddle down closely, creep
Close to his knee
And daddy will see
If he can’t do his writing. Vain!
I shall never write again!
Oh, God! was it like a love divine
To make their lives hang on my pen
When I cannot write a line?
TWO LULLABIES.
I.
Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.
Thy cradle is a
ll silken lined,
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
Warm woolly blankets o’er thee spread,
With soft white pillows for thy head.
Much gold those little hands shall hold,
And wealth about thy life shall fold,
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
Nor the low ills of common life.
These little feet shall never tread
Except on paths soft-carpeted,
And all life’s flowers in wreaths shall twine
To deck that darling head of thine.
Thou shalt have overflowing measure
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
And thou shalt be right charitable
With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
And thou shalt praise God every day
For His good gifts that come thy way,
And again thank Him, and again,
That thou art not as other men.
For ‘midst thy wealth thou wilt recall —
’Tis to God’s grace thou owest it all;
And when all’s spent that life has given,
Thou’lt have a golden home in heaven.
II.
Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I’ve wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold —
Yet my bosom’s still warm — so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Sleep, little baby, and rest,
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best —
But there’s naught for us there — so rest.
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady’s child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild! —
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you — you poor little thing?
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Mine, my treasure, my own —
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you — you poor little thing!
Sleep, little baby, sleep —
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again —
Not though my heart should break!
I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake —
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
BABY SONG.
I.