by Edith Nesbit
Hot tumult and cold fear,
For the traitor only dares be brave,
Until his king be near!
We armed at speed, we sallied forth,
Sir Hugh was at our head;
He set his teeth and he marked his path
By a line of traitors, dead.
He hacked his way straight to the churl
Who did the boy to death,
He swung his sword in his two strong hands
And clove him to the teeth.
And while the blade was held in the bone,
The caitiffs round him pressed,
And he died, as one of his line should die,
With three blades in his breast.
And when they told the king these things,
He turned his head away,
And said: “A braver man than I
Has fallen for me this day!”
FEBRUARY.
The Spring’s in the air —
Here, there,
Everywhere!
Though there’s scarce a green tip to a bud,
Spring laughs over hill and plain,
As the sunlight turns the lane’s mud
To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other;
And longings one cannot smother,
And delight that sings through the brain,
Turn all one’s life into glory —
’Tis the old new ravishing story —
The Spring’s here again!
When the leaves grew red
And dead,
We said:
“See how much more fair
Than the green leaves shimmering
Are the mists and the tints of decay!”
In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November,
Did our hearts not remember
The green woods — and linnets that sing?
Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended
’Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended;
Thank God for the Spring!
APRIL.
Who calls the Autumn season drear?
It was in Autumn that we met,
When under foot dead leaves lay wet
In the black London gardens, dear.
The fog was yellow everywhere,
And very thick in Finsbury Square,
Where in those days we used to meet.
I used to buy you violets sweet
From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.
’Twas Autumn then — can we forget? —
When first we met.
Who says that Spring is dear and fair?
It is in Spring-time that we part,
And weary heart from weary heart
Turns, as the birds begin to pair.
The sun shines on the golden dome,
The primroses in baskets come,
With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer
The town with dreams of the crownèd year.
We’re both polite and insincere:
Though neither says it, yet — at heart —
We mean to part.
JUNE.
Oh, I’m weary of the town,
Where life’s too hard for smiling — and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs — the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul’s — the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?
Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side — you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June’s sunshine were ablaze, —
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn’t nowadays.
There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle — where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city — on this first blue day of June!
The grass is high — I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day —
It would only be to count my dead — whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow — not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way — but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!
JULY.
The night hardly covers the face of the sky,
But the darkness is drawn
Like a veil o’er the heaven these nights in July,
A veil rent at dawn,
When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver,
And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river,
And the light in the east keener grows — clearer grows,
Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose,
And o’er the hill’s shoulder — the night wholly past —
The sun peeps at last!
Come out! there’s a freshness that thrills like a song,
That soothes like a sleep;
And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along,
Where the downs slope up steep.
There’s such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven,
Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven,
And the old earth looks new — and our hearts seem new-born,
And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn —
And hope and brave purpose awaken anew
‘Mid the sunshine and dew.
NOVEMBER.
Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by
Across the gold sun and blue sky,
Which still are there eternally.
Above the sodden garden-bed
Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,
Where the tall lily bent its head
Over carnations white and red.
The leafless poplars, straight and tall,
Stand by the gray-green garden wall,
From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old
Sweet August spent the roses’ gold,
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold
Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.
And we, by cosy fireside, muse
On what the Fates grant, what refuse;
And what we waste and what we use.
Summer returns — despite the rain
That weeps against the window-pane.
Who’d weep—’mid fame and golden gain —
For youth, that does not come again?
ROCHESTER CASTLE.
Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;
Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd
Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things —
Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.
What prisoned hands have torn at the stone
Where your soft hand lies — oh my heart! — alone?
What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears
To see what we see after all these years —
The free, broad river go smoothly by
And the free, blithe birds ‘neath the free, blue sky?
And now — O Time, how you work your will!
— The pitiless walls are standing still,
But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge,
And the wild rose garlands the walls’ sheer edge,
And where once the imprisoned heart beat low,
The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!
In the sad, stern arches they build and pair,
As happy as dreams and as free as air,
And sorrow and longing and life-long pain
Man brings not into these walls again;
And yet — O my love, with the face of flowers —
What do we bring in these hearts of ours?
RUCKINGE CHURCH.
“And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church
was, and how long it was since any music but that of the
moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded
there. And we said: ‘Poor old church! it will never hear any
true music any more’. Then she turned to us from the door of
the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a
stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full
of tears. And, standing there, she sang ‘Ave Maria’ — it was
Gounod’s music, I think — with her voice and her face like an
angel’s. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door
and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he
loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was
ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely
as before.” — Extract from our Diary.
The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds
That greenly cover all the waterways,
Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds
Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days,
Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green
And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen
Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.
From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down,
Unscared to see my boat and me go by;
The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown
To winds that should disrobe them presently;
And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold,
And the still water caught the lavished gold,
The primrose and the purple of the sky.
The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge
Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around;
The iris nodded at the water’s edge,
Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound;
With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight
And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light,
Leaving my solitude the more profound.
We moved towards the church, my boat and I —
The church that at the marsh edge stands alone;
It caught the reflex of the sunset sky
On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone.
Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood
In the thronged graveyard’s infinite solitude,
While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.
From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves
But just a step, across a lichened wall.
Thick o’er the happy dead the marsh grass waves,
And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall,
And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red
Over still hearts that once in torment fed
At Life’s intolerable festival.
The plaster of the porch has fallen away
From the lean stones, that now are all awry,
And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray
Creeps in — sad emblem of fidelity —
And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams
Hewn long ago — with, ah! what faith and dreams! —
By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.
The rusty key, the heavy rotten door,
The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green
With mould and damp, the desecrated floor
With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been
And were once; all the musty, dreary chill —
They strike a shudder through my being still
When memory lights again that lightless scene.
And where the altar stood, and where the Christ
Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood
Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed
To all the world has ever known of good!
Our Lady’s chapel was a lightless shrine;
There was no human heart and no divine,
No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.
There was no scent of incense in the air,
No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle,
The white glass windows turned to mocking glare
The lovely sunset’s gracious rosy smile.
A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep
All that a man might give his life to keep
If only for an instant’s breathing while!
Cold with my rage against the men who held
At such cheap rate the labours of the dead,
My heart within me sank, while o’er it swelled
A sadness that would not be comforted;
An awe came on me, and I seemed to face
The invisible spirit of the dreary place,
To hear the unheard voice of it, which said: —
“Is love, then, dead upon earth?
Ah! who shall tell or be told
What my walls were once worth
When men worked for love, not for gold?
Each stone was made to hold
A heartful of love and faith;
Now love and faith are dead,
Dead are the prayers that are said,
Nothing is living but Death!
“Oh for the old glad days,
Incense thick in the air,
Passion of thanks and of praise,
Passion of trust and of prayer!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Love on the earth was then,
Strong were men’s souls, and brave:
Those men lie in the grave,
They will live not again!
“Then all my arches rang
With music glorious and sweet,
Men’s souls burned as they sang,
Tears fell down at their feet,
Hearts with the Christ-heart beat,
Hands in men’s hands held fast;
Union and brotherhood were!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Therefore the old days passed.
“Then, when later there came
Hatred, anger and strife,
The sword blood-red and the flame
And the stake and contempt of life,
Husband severed from wife,
Hearts with the Christ-heart bled:
Through the worst of the fight
Still the old fire burned bright,
Still the old faith was not dead.
“Though they tore my Christ from the cross,
And mocked at the Mother of Grace,
And broke my windows across,
Defiling the holy place —
Children of death and disgrace!
They spat on the altar stone,
They tore down and trampled the rood,
Stained my pillars with blood,
Left me lifeless, alone —
“Yet, when my walls were left
Robbed of all beauty and bare,
Still God cancelled the theft,
The soul of the thing was there.
In my damp, unwindowed air
Fugitives stopped to pray,
And their prayers were splendid to hear,
Like the sound of a storm that is near —
And love was not dead that day.
“Then the birds of the air built nests
In these empty shadows of mine,
And the warmth of their brooding breasts
S
till warmed the untended shrine.
His creatures are all divine;
He is praised by the woodland throng,
And my old walls echoed and heard
The passionate praising word,
And love still lived in their song.
“Then came the Protestant crew
And made me the thing you have known —
Whitewashed and plastered me new,
Covered my marble and stone —
Could they not leave me alone?
Vain was the cry, for they trod
Over my tombs, and I saw
Books and the Tables of Law
Set in the place of my God.
“And love is dead, so it seems!
Shall I never hear again
The music of heaven and of dreams,
Songs of ideals of men?
Great dreams and songs we had then,
Now I but hear from the wood
Cry of a bat or a bird.
Oh for love’s passionate word
Sent from men’s hearts to the Good!
“Sometimes men come, and they sing,
But I know not their song nor their voice;
They have no hearts they can bring,
They have no souls to rejoice,
Theirs is but folly and noise.
Oh for a voice that could sing
Songs to the Queen of the blest,
Hymns to the Dearest and Best,
Songs to our Master, her King!”
The church was full of silence. I shut in
Its loss and loneliness, and went my way.
Its sadness was not less its walls within
Because I wore it in my heart that day,
And many a day since, when I see again
Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain
The church’s golden roof and arches gray.
* * * * *
Along wet roads, all shining with late rain,
And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere,
I came one day towards the church again.
It was the spring-time of the day and year;
The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud
That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed
Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear.
The sky behind the old gray church was gray —
Gray as my memories, and gray as I;
The forlorn graves each side the grassy way
Called to me “Brother!” as I passed them by.
The door was open. “I shall feel again,”
I thought, “that inextinguishable pain
Of longing loss and hopeless memory.”
When — O electric flash of ecstasy!
No spirit’s moan of pain fell on my ear —
A human voice, an angel’s melody,