The Rainbow and the Rose Part 10

But now your pillow is cold; Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold; Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies.

I have put the death-money upon your eyes, So that you should not wake up in the night.

I have bound your face with white; I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,-- Those arms wherein I have slept so many years, Those feet that hastened when they came to me, And all your body that belonged to me.

I have smoothed your dear dull hair, And there is nothing left to say for you And nothing left to fear or pray for you; And I have got the rest of life to bear: Thank G.o.d it is you, not I, who are lying there.

If I had died And you had stood beside This still white bed Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,-- I know the thing it is, And I thank G.o.d that He has spared you this.

If one must bear it, thank G.o.d it was I Who had to live and bear to see you die, Who have to live, and bear to see you dead.

You will have nothing of it all to bear: You will not even know that in your bed You lie alone. You will not miss my head Beside you on the pillow: you will rest So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast.

But I--but I--Your pillow and your place-- And only the darkness laid against my face, And only my anguish pressed against my side-- Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d, that it was you who died!

CHLOE.

NIGHT wind sighing through the poplar leaves, Trembling of the aspen, s.h.i.+vering of the willow, Every leafy voice of all the night-time grieves, Mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow.

Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn, Fairer than the larches in their young spring glory, Brighter than the glow-worms on the dewy lawn, Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story:--

"Chloe lived and Chloe loved: she brought new gladness, Hope and life and all things good to all who met her; Only, dying, wept to know the lifelong sadness Willed, against her will, to those who can't forget her."

INVOCATION.

COME to-night in a dream to-night, Come as you used to do, Come in the gown, in the gown of white, Come in the ribbon of blue; Come in the virgin's colours you wear, Come through the dark and the dew, Come with the scent of the night in your hair, Come as you used to do.

Blue and white of your eyes and your face, White of your gown and blue, Will you not come from the happy place, Come as you used to do?

Tears so many, so many tears Where there were once so few-- Can they not wash the gray of the years From the white of your gown and blue?

THE LAST BETRAYAL.

AND I shall lie alone at last, Clear of the stream that ran so fast, And feel the flower roots in my hair, And in my hands the roots of trees; Myself wrapt in the ungrudging peace That leaves no pain uncovered anywhere.

What--this hope left? this way not barred?

This last best treasure without guard?

This heaven free--no prayers to pay?

Fool--are the Rulers of men asleep?

Thou knowest what tears They bade thee weep, But, when peace comes, 'tis thou wilt sleep, not They.

A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY.

22nd January, 1901.

THE Queen is dead. G.o.d save the King, In this his hour of grief, When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf To lay them on his shoulders as he stands Inheriting her glories and her lands-- First gain of his at which his Mother's voice Has not been first to bless and to rejoice-- A man, set lonely between gain and loss.

(O words of love the heart remembereth, O mighty loss outweighing every gain!) A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across, A King whose Mother lies alone with Death Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep.

O G.o.d, who seest the tears Thy children weep, O G.o.d, who countest each sad heart-beat, see How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee!

Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain-- G.o.d, save the King!

The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days, The sorrow of them both alike merge now In the new aureole that lights her brow.

The clamour of her people's voice in praise Must hush itself to the still voice that prays In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here, A mighty Queen lies dead.

Her people's heart wears black, The black bells toll unceasing in their ear, And on the gold sun's track The great world round Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes, Till even our ancient foes With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head, Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour When Love lends all his power To speed grief's arrows from the bow of Death, When sighs are idle breath, When tears are fountains vain.

She will not wake again, Not now, not here.

O great and good and infinitely dear, O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet, No more Life's th.o.r.n.y ways will wound your feet.

O Mother dear, sleep sound!

When you shall wake, Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown, Then, then you will look down On us who love you, and, remembering, The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer, Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there: Who knows what radiant answer it may bring?

"G.o.d save the King!"

The Queen is dead. G.o.d save the King!

From all ill thought and deed, From heartless service and from selfish sway, From treason, and the vain imagining Of evil counsellors, and the noisome breed Of flatterers who eat the soul away, G.o.d save the King!

From loss and pain and tears Such as her many years Brought her; from battle and strife, And the inmost hurt of life, The wounds that no crown can heal, No ermine robes conceal, G.o.d save the King!

G.o.d, by our memories of his Mother's face, By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place, Grant to our sorrow this desired grace: G.o.d save the King!

The Queen is dead. G.o.d save the King.

This is no hour when joy has leave to sing; Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray, More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing, In this most sorrowful day.

G.o.d, who wast of a mortal Mother born, Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn, G.o.d, save the King!

Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears In which its splendour fades and disappears-- His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands.

The Queen is dead.

G.o.d! strengthen the King's hands!

G.o.d, save the King!

TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE.

OVER the meadow and down the lane To the gate by the twisted thorn: Your feet should know each turn of the way You trod so many many a day, Before the old love was put out of its pain, Before the new love was born.

Kiss her, hold her and fold her close, Tell her the old true tale: You ought to know each turn of the phrase,-- You learned them all in the poor old days Before the birth of the new red rose, Before the old rose grew pale.

And do not fear I shall creep to-night To make a third at your tryst: My ghost, if it walked, would only wait To scare the others away from the gate Where you teach your new love the old delight, With the lips that your old love kissed.

DEATH.

NEVER again: No child shall stir the inmost heart of her And teach her heaven by that first faint stir; No little lips shall lie against her breast Save the cold lips that now lie there at rest; No little voice shall rouse her from her sleep And bid her wake to pain: Her sleep is calm and deep, Call not! refrain.

Close in her arm As though even death drew back before the face Of Motherhood in this white stilly place, The gathered bud lies waxen white and cold, As ever a flower your winter gardens hold.

She bore the pain, she never wore the crown, She worked the bitter charm, But all she won thereby is here laid down Renounced--for good or harm.

Dream? Feed your soul With dreams, while we must starve our hearts on clay, Dream of a glorious white-winged sun-crowned day When you shall see her once more face to face Beside Christ's Mother in the blessed place!

But while you dream, they carry her from here, The black bells toll and toll.

Oh G.o.d! if only she cannot see or hear, Not hear those ghoul-like bells that crowd so near, Not see that cold clay hole.

IN MEMORY OF