Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 143

At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.

The bed of state is hung with c.r.a.pe--the grand old bed where she was wed-- And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.

Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door, And with steps of m.u.f.fled woe pa.s.s breathless o'er the silent floor, And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;

'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'

'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say, 'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he lay.'

'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the h.o.a.ry Steward said; 'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray; 'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head; 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'

Then a father Priest they sought, The Priest that taught her all she knew, And they told him of her loss.

'For she is mild and sweet of will, She loved him, and his words are peace, And he shall heal her ill.'

But her watch she did not cease.

He bless'd her where she sat distraught, And show'd her holy cross,-- The cross she kiss'd from year to year-- But she neither saw nor heard; And said he in her deaf ear All he had been wont to teach, All she had been fond to hear, Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech, But she answer'd not a word.

Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed, 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'

Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell, And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, 'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his brow.

'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!

'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.'

'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round.

With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she smiled, And then she wept; with that they drew About her, as of old; Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, Her trembling touch was cold; But she said, 'My maidens true, No more weeping and well-away; Let them kill the feast.

I would be happy in my soul.

"He is better," saith the Priest; He did but sleep the weary day, And will waken whole.

Carry me to his dear side, And let the halls be trim; Whistly, whistly,' said she, 'I am wan with watching and wail, He must not wake to see me pale, Let me sleep with him.

See you keep the tryst for me, I would rest till he awake And rise up like a bride.

But whistly, whistly!' said she.

'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; And for His dear sake Say Laus, Domine.'

Silent they cast down their eyes, And every breast a sob did rive, She lifted her in wild surprise And they dared not disobey.

'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, h.o.a.ry when her days were new; 'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; 'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.

The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, And she stood among the train Like a dead tree shaking dew.

Then the Priest he softly stept Midway in the little band, And he took the Lady's hand.

'Laus Deo,' he said aloud, 'Laus Deo,' they said again, Yet again, and yet again, Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd, Till in wont and fear it rose To the Sabbath strain.

But she neither turn'd her head Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she.

Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.

William Allingham. 1824-1889

769. The Fairies

UP the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky sh.o.r.e Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He 's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

George MacDonald. 1824-1905

770. That Holy Thing

THEY all were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high: Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot Naught but Thy presence can avail; Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, That Thou mayst answer all my need-- Yea, every bygone prayer.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1828-1882

771. The Blessed Damozel

THE blessed Damozel lean'd out From the gold bar of Heaven: Her blue grave eyes were deeper much Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day One of G.o.d's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years: ...Yet now, here in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me,--her hair Fell all about my face....

Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of G.o.d's house That she was standing on,-- By G.o.d built over the sheer depth In which s.p.a.ce is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.

But in those tracts, with her, it was The peace of utter light And silence. For no breeze may stir Along the steady flight Of seraphim; no echo there, Beyond all depth or height.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends, Playing at holy games, Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves, Their virginal chaste names; And the souls, mounting up to G.o.d, Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd Into the vast waste calm; Till her bosom's pressure must have made The bar she lean'd on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.

From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw Time, like a pulse, shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, In that steep gulf, to pierce The swarm; and then she spoke, as when The stars sang in their spheres.

'I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,' she said.

'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven?

On earth, has he not pray'd?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand, and go with him To the deep wells of light, And we will step down as to a stream And bathe there in G.o.d's sight.