by Edith Nesbit
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The greeny glow-worms creep,
The pigeons to their cote are gone
And, to their fold, the sheep.
Rest, baby, rest!
The sun sinks in the west,
The daisies all have gone to sleep,
The birds are in the nest.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The sky grows dark and deep,
The stars watch over all the world,
God’s angels guard thy sleep.
II.
Wake, baby dear!
The good, glad morning’s here;
The dove is cooing soft and low,
The lark sings loud and clear.
Wake, baby, wake!
Long since the day did break,
The daisy buds are all uncurled,
The sun laughs in the lake.
Wake, baby dear!
Thy mother’s waiting near,
And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun,
And all things bright and dear.
LULLABY.
Sleep, my darling; mother will sing
Soft low songs to her little king,
Nobody else must listen or hear
The pretty secrets I tell my dear.
Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may —
Sorrow dawns with the dawning day,
Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear,
Soon enough will the day be here.
Lie here quiet on mother’s arm,
Safe from harm;
Nestled closely to mother’s breast,
Sleep and rest!
Mother feels your breath’s soft stir
Close to her;
Mother holds you, clasps you tight,
All the night.
When the little Jesus lay
On the manger’s hay,
He was a Baby, if tales tell true,
Just like you.
And He had no crown to wear
But His bright hair;
And such kisses as I give you
He had too.
Mary never loved her Son
More than I love my little one;
And her Baby never smiled
More divinely than my little child.
Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may —
Sorrow dawns with the dawning day;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear,
All too soon will the day be here.
AN EAST-END TRAGEDY.
You said that you would never wed:
“My love, my life’s one work lie here,
‘Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear,
Where all life’s flower-petals are shed!”
You said.
I heard: I bowed to what I heard;
I bowed my head and worshipped you —
So brave, so beautiful, so true —
How could I doubt a single word
I heard?
My sweet, white lily! All the street,
As you passed by, grew clean again;
The fallen, blackened souls of men
Looked heavenward when men heard your feet,
My sweet.
But one came, dared to woo, and won —
He heard your vows, and laughed at them;
He plucked my lily from its stem —
Sacred to all men under sun,
But one!
HERE AND THERE.
Ah me, how hot and weary here in town
The days crawl by!
How otherwise they go my heart records,
Where the marsh meadows lie
And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail
Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.
Here the sun grins along the dusty street
Beneath pale skies:
Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,
Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries —
Through these I hear the song that the sea sings
To the far meadowlands of Paradise.
O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn —
O long sweet days —
O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay
With sedge and water mace —
O fair marsh land desirable and dear —
How far from you lie my life’s weary ways!
Yet in my darkest night there shines a star
More fair than day;
There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white
In the sad city way.
That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,
That star shines only when the skies are gray.
For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane
Before the light
Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,
And turn to noon our night:
We fight for freedom and the souls of men —
Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!
MOTHER.
A little room with scanty grace
Of drapery or ordered ease;
White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards, —
But there’s a hum of summer bees,
The sun sends through the quiet place
The scent that honeysuckle hoards.
Outside, the little garden glows
With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;
Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood
Where trail the briony and wild rose,
And where grow blossoms of delight
In an inviolate solitude.
Through that green world there blows an air
That cools my forehead even here
In this sad city’s riotous roar —
And from that room my ears can hear
Tears and the echo of a prayer,
And the world’s voice is heard no more.
A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY.
Across the grim, gray, northern sea
The Danish warships went,
Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men
On blood and plunder bent;
And they landed on a smiling land —
The garden-land of Kent.
They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,
They set the ricks aflame;
They slew the men with axe and sword,
They slew the maids with shame;
Until, to Canterbury town,
Made mad with blood, they came.
Archbishop Alphege walked the wall
And looked down on the foe.
“Now fly, my lord!” his monks implored,
“While yet a man may go!”
“Shame on you, monks of mine,” he cried,
“To shame your bishop so!
“What, would you have the shepherd flee,
Like any hireling knave?
What, leave my church, my poor — God’s poor,
To a dark and prayerless grave?
No! by the body of my Lord,
My skin I will not save!”
And when men heard his true, strong word,
They bore them as men should.
For twenty nights and twenty days
The foemen they withstood,
And, day and night, shone tapers bright,
And incense veiled the rood.
The warriors manned the walls without,
The monks prayed on within,
Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer
And valour fared to win,
Whispered a traitor, who stole out
And let the foemen in.
Then through the quiet church there ran
A sudden breath of fear;
The monks made haste to bar the door,
And hide the golden gear;
And to their lord once more they cried,
“Hide, hide! the foe is here!”
Through all the church’s windows showed
The sudden laugh of flame;
Along the street went trampling feet,
And thr
ough the smoke there came
The voice of women, calling shrill
Upon the Saviour’s name.
And “Hide! oh, hide!” the monks all cried,
“Nor meet such foes as these!”
“Be still,” he said, “hide if ye will,
Live on, and take your ease!
By my Lord’s death, my latest breath,
Like His, shall speak of peace!”
He strode along the dusky aisle,
And flung the church doors wide;
Bright armour shone, and blazing homes
Lit up the world outside,
And in the streets reeled to and fro
A bloody human tide.
The mailed barbarians laughed aloud
To see the brave blood flow;
They trampled on the breast and hair
Of girls their swords laid low,
And on the points of reeking spears
Tossed babies to and fro.
Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed
Against the dark red tide.
“Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!
Your sins are red,” he cried;
“Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom
The King of Heaven died!”
Drunken with blood and lust of fight,
Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.
“Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep
Before thy foolish fane!
Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,
That thou mayst know their pain!”
He stood, and saw his monks all slain;
The altar steps ran red;
In horrid heaps men lay about,
The dying with the dead;
And the east brightened, and the sky
Grew rosy overhead.
Then from the church a tiny puff
Of smoke rose ‘gainst the sky,
Out broke the fire, and flame on flame
Leaped palely out on high,
Till but the church’s walls were left
For men to know it by.
And when the sweet sun laughed again
O’er fields and furrows brown,
The brave archbishop hid his eyes,
Until the tears dropped down
On the charred blackness of the wreck
Of Canterbury town.
* * * * *
“Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word
Unto thy timid sheep,
And bid them greaten up their hearts,
And to our feet dare creep,
And bring a ransom here which we,
Instead of thee, may keep!”
Archbishop Alphege stood alone,
Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;
Loaded with chains, with aching heart,
And wounded in the side;
And in his hour of utmost pain
Thus to the Dane replied:
“Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow
Before this thing shall be;
If I be held till ransom come,
I never shall be free;
For by God’s heart, God’s poor shall never
Be robbed to ransom me!”
They flung him in a dungeon dark,
They heaped on him fresh chains,
They promised him unnumbered ills
And unimagined pains;
But still he said, “No English shall
Be taxed to profit Danes!”
Six months passed by; no ransom came;
Their threats had almost ceased,
When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,
A great and brutal feast;
And they sent and dragged the Christian man
Before the pagan beast.
Down the great hall, from east to west,
The long rough tables ran;
They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,
And then the drink began —
At last in all that mighty hall
Was not one sober man.
’Twas then they brought the bishop forth
Before the drunken throng;
And “Send for ransom!” Thorkill cried,
“You are weak, and we are strong,
Or, by the hand of Thor, you die —
We have borne with you too long!”
The savage faces of the Danes
Leered redly all around;
The bones of beasts and empty cups
Lay heaped upon the ground,
And ‘mid the crowd of howling wolves
The Christian saint stood bound.
He looked in Thorkill’s angry eyes
And knew what thing should be,
Then spake: “By God, who died to save
The poor, and me, and thee,
Thou art not strong enough — God’s poor
Shall not be taxed for me!”
“Gold! Give us gold, or die!” All round
The rising tumult ran.
“I give my life, I give God’s word,
I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!”
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose
With one fierce shout and yell;
They flung at him the bones of beasts,
They aimed right strong and well.
“O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!”
The bishop cried — and fell.
* * * * *
And so men call him “Saint,” yet some
Deemed this an unearned crown,
Since ’twas not for the Church or faith
He laid his brave life down;
But otherwise men deemed of it
In Canterbury town.
“Not for the Church he died,” they said,
“Yet he our saint shall be,
Since for Christ’s poor he gave his life,
So for Christ’s self died he.
‘Who does it to the least of these,
Has done it unto Me!’”
MORNING.
It was about the time of day
When all the lawns with dew are wet;
I wandered down a steep wood-way,
And there I met with Margaret —
Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met:
I could not find a word to say,
And she was silent too — and yet
For hand and lips I dared to pray —
And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay,
Her eyes are like the violet;
Will time take this joy, too, away,
And ever teach me to forget —
And to forget without regret —
The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
THE PRAYER.
They talk of money and of fame,
Would make a fortune or a name,
And gold and laurel both must be
For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of God or fate
The gift most gracious and most great,
It would not be such gifts as these
That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace —
A little, quiet, firelit place,
Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she
Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing
The songs my heart hears echoing;
And I, made pure by joy, should come
Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace,
Would not God laugh out in my face?
Since gold and fame indeed are His
To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
THE RIVER MAIDENS.
When autumn winds the river grieve,
And autumn mists about it creep,
The river maids all shivering leave
The stream, and sing
ing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow
Alike are impotent to break
The spell of sleep that laid them low —
The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace
Strews blossom on the river’s breast,
Flowers fall upon each sleeping face
And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar
Through alders green and willows gray,
They rise where sedge and iris are,
And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
They lie beside the river’s edge,
By fields with buttercups a-blaze;
They whisper in the whispering sedge,
They say the spell the cuckoo says.
And when they hear the nightingale
And see the blossomed hawthorn tree,
What time the orchard pink grows pale —
The river maidens beckon me.
Through all the city’s smoke appear
White arms and golden hair a-gleam,
And through the noise of life I hear
“Come back — to the enchanted stream.
“Come back to water, wood and weir!
See what the summer has to show!
Come back, come back — we too are here.”
I hear them calling, and I go.
But when once more my dripping oar
Makes music on the dreaming air,
I vainly look to stream and shore
For those white arms that lured me there.
I listen to the singing weir,
I hold my breath where thrushes are,
But I can never, never hear
The voice that called me from afar.
Only when spring grows fair next year,
Even where sin and cities be,
I know what voices I shall hear,
And what white arms will beckon me.
ON THE MEDWAY.
I.
In summer evening, love,
We glide by grassy meadows,
Red sun is shining,
Day is declining,
Peace is around, above.
The poplar folds on high
Dark wings against the sky;
Through dreaming shadows
On we move,
Silently, you and I.
And seaward still we row,
By sedge and bulrush sliding,
Breezes are sending
Ripples unending
Over the way we go.
Above the poplar tree
The moon sails white and free,
The boat goes gliding
Swift or slow,
But ever towards the sea.
II.
Dip, drip, in and out
The rhythmic oars move slowly,
Mist-kissed, round about
The pale sky reddens wholly;
Chill, still, through waxing light