Songs of Childhood Part 6

'"And that there wood is English wood, And this here cruel sea, The selfsame old blue ocean Years gone remembers me,

"A-sitting with my bread and b.u.t.ter Down ahind yon chitterin' mill; And this same Marinere"--(that's me), "Is that same leetle Will!--

"That very same wee leetle Will Eating his bread and b.u.t.ter there, A-looking on the broad blue sea Betwixt his yaller hair!"

'And here be I, my son, throwed up Like corpses from the sea, s.h.i.+ps, stars, winds, tempests, pirates past, Yet leetle Will I be!'

He said no more, that sailorman, But in a reverie Stared like the figure of a s.h.i.+p With painted eyes to sea.

THE PHANTOM

'Upstairs in the large closet, child, This side the blue-room door, Is an old Bible, bound in leather, Standing upon the floor;

'Go with this taper, bring it me; Carry it on your arm; It is the book on many a sea Hath stilled the waves' alarm.'

Late the hour, dark the night, The house is solitary, Feeble is a taper's light To light poor Ann to see.

Her eyes are yet with visions bright Of sylph and river, flower and fay, Now through a narrow corridor She takes her lonely way.

Vast shadows on the heedless walls Gigantic loom, stoop low: Each little hasty footfall calls Hollowly to and fro.

In the dim solitude her heart Remembers tearlessly White winters when her mother was Her loving company.

Now in the dark clear gla.s.s she sees A taper mocking hers,-- A phantom face of light blue eyes, Reflecting phantom fears.

Around her loom the vacant rooms, Wind the upward stairs, She climbs on into a loneliness Only her taper shares.

Her grandmother is deaf with age; A garden of moonless trees Would answer not though she should cry In anguish on her knees.

So that she scarcely heeds--so fast Her pent-up heart doth beat-- When, faint along the corridor, Falleth the sound of feet:--

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet Violin and 'cello wake Music for twirling feet.

O! in an old unfriendly house, What shapes may not conceal Their faces in the open day, At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear To languish small and blue; Far in the woods the winter wind Runs whistling through.

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair, Her mouth is stretched to cry, But sudden, with a gush of joy, It narrows to a sigh.

It is a wilding child which comes Swift through the corridor, Singing an old forgotten song, This ancient burden bore:--

'Thorn, thorn, I wis, And roses twain, A red rose and a white, Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss A lonely child good-night.

'Swim fish, sing bird, And sigh again, I that am lost am lone, Bee in the blossom never stirred Locks hid beneath a stone!'--

Her eye was of the azure fire That hovers in wintry flame; Her raiment wild and yellow as furze That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower, But on her head a wreath Of faded flag-flowers that did yet Smell sweetly after death.

Clear was the light of loveliness That lit her face like rain; And sad the mouth that uttered Her immemorial strain.

Gloomy with night the corridor Is now that she is gone, Albeit this solitary child No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down, Heavy and thick the tome, A beauty beyond fear to dim Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world malignant, grim, Vex many a wood, and glen, And house, and pool,--the unquiet ghosts Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie's house this spirit-- A child as lone as she-- Pining for love not found on earth, Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry-stool, Her fairy-book laid by, She gazes in the fire, knowing She hath sweet company.

THE MILLER AND HIS SON

A tw.a.n.gling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.'

'The Miller went a-walking All in the forest high, He sees three doves a-flitting Against the dark blue sky:

'Says he, "My son, now follow These doves so white and free, That cry above the forest, And surely cry to thee."

"I go, my dearest Father, But O! I sadly fear, These doves so white will lead me far, But never bring me near."

'He kisses the Miller, He cries, "Awhoop to ye!"

And straightway through the forest Follows the wood-doves three.

'There came a sound of weeping To the Miller in his Mill; Red roses in a thicket Bloomed over near his wheel;

'Three stars shone wild and brightly Above the forest dim: But never his dearest son Returns again to him.

'The cuckoo shall call "Cuckoo!"

In vain along the vale, The linnet, and the blackbird, The mournful nightingale;

'The Miller hears and sees not, A-thinking of his son; His toppling wheel is silent; His grinding done.

'"Ye doves so white," he weepeth, "Ye roses on the tree, Ye stars that s.h.i.+ne so brightly, Ye s.h.i.+ne in vain for me!"

'I bade him follow, follow, He said, "O Father dear, These doves so white will lead me far But never bring me near!"'

A tw.a.n.gling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.'