The Fairy Changeling and Other Poems Part 7

THE KINE OF MY FATHER

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping; The young goat's at mischief, but little can I do: For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening; O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow; "Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!"

My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish; Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing; I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away; Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping; I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger; The head that I love lying low upon the sand.

The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling, Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.

I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn, Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain: A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing, No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!

All through the night did I hear the Banshee keening: Somewhere you are dying, and nothing can I do; My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish; Bitter is your trouble-and I am far from you.

SANCTUARY

Neighbour! for pity a hound cries on your steps With pleading eyes, with sore and weary feet.

Neighbour! your pity a poor beast doth implore; Hunger and cold are busy in the street.

Then, neighbour! pause; 'tis no good work you do.

"Off from my door! I have no place for you."

Neighbour, your mercy! A heart of love is here, Within this weary body-love is rare, And seldom comes to cry before our door.

Then open wide, and take your little share.

Love pleads to be your servant, leal and true.

"Off from my step! I have no place for you."

From step to step abused, from door to door, Whipped by the wind, and beaten by the rain, With hunger at his throat, he pa.s.ses on; Yet one who follows shares the creature's pain.

One follows. Neighbour, stop! unless you rue.

"Off from my step! I have no place for you."

The gentle Christ had heard His crying hound, And left His throne to track the weary feet.

He follows, though unseen, with bleeding heart, Refused from door to door, from street to street.

Yes, one who follows had refusal too.

"Off from my door! I have no place for you."

AN EASTERN G.o.d

I saw an Eastern G.o.d to-day; My comrades laughed; lest I betray My secret thoughts, I mocked him too.

His many hands (he had no few, This G.o.d of gifts and charity), The marble race, that smiled on me, I mocked, and said, "O G.o.d unthroned, Lone exile from the faith you owned, No priest to bring you sacrifice, No censer with its breath of spice, No land to mourn your funeral pyre.

O King, whose subjects felt your fire, Now dead, now stone, without a slave, Unfeared, unloved, you have no grave.

Poor G.o.d, who cannot understand, And what of your fair Eastern land, What dark brows brushed your dusky feet, What warm hearts on your marble beat, With many a prayer unanswered?"

My comrades laughed and pa.s.sed. I said, "If in those lands you wander still, In spirit, G.o.d, and work your will,"

I whispered in the marble ear So low-because the walls might hear- The painted lips they smiled at me- "O guard my love, where'er he be."

A FRIEND IN NEED

Who has room for a friend Who has money to spend, And a goblet of gold For your fingers to hold, At the wave of whose hand Leap the salmon to land, Drop the birds of the air, Fall the stag and the hare.

Who has room for a friend Who has money to lend?

We have room for a friend!

Who has room for a friend Who has nothing to lend, When the goblet of gold Is as far from his hold As the fleet-footed hare, Or the birds of the air.

Who has room for a friend Who has nothing to spend?

We know not such a friend.

IN A WOOD

Hush, 'tis thy voice!

No, but a bird upon the bough Romancing to its mate, but where art thou To bid my heart rejoice?

'Tis thy hand, speak!

No, but the branches striking in the wind Let loose a withered leaf that falls behind Blown to my cheek.

Hush, thy footfall!

No, 'tis a streamlet hidden in the fern, Thus from dawn to dark I wait, I learn Sorrow is all.

A VAGRANT HEART

O to be a woman! to be left to pique and pine, When the winds are out and calling to this vagrant heart of mine.

Whisht! it whistles at the windows, and how can I be still?

There! the last leaves of the beech-tree go dancing down the hill.

All the boats at anchor they are plunging to be free- O to be a sailor, and away across the sea!

When the sky is black with thunder, and the sea is white with foam, The gray-gulls whirl up shrieking and seek their rocky home, Low his boat is lying leeward, how she runs upon the gale, As she rises with the billows, nor shakes her dripping sail.

There is danger on the waters-there is joy where dangers be- Alas! to be a woman and the nomad's heart in me.

Ochone! to be a woman, only sighing on the sh.o.r.e- With a soul that finds a pa.s.sion for each long breaker's roar, With a heart that beats as restless as all the winds that blow- Thrust a cloth between her fingers, and tell her she must sew; Must join in empty chatter, and calculate with straws- For the weighing of our neighbour-for the sake of social laws.