Lays and legends Part 1

Lays and legends.

by Edith Nesbit.

BRIDAL BALLAD.

"Come, fill me flagons full and fair Of red wine and of white, And, maidens mine, my bower prepare-- It is my wedding night.

"And braid my hair with jewels bright, And make me fair and fine-- This is the day that brings the night When my desire is mine."

They decked her bower with roses blown, With rushes strewed the floor, And sewed more jewels on her gown Than ever she wore before.

She wore two roses in her face, Two jewels in her e'en, Her hair was crowned with sunset rays, Her brows shone white between.

"Tapers at the bed's foot," she saith, "Two tapers at the head!"

It seemed more like the bed of death Than like a bridal bed.

He came; he took her hands in his, He kissed her on the face; "There is more heaven in thy kiss Than in our Lady's grace".

He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, He kissed her three times o'er; He kissed her brow, he kissed her eyes, He kissed her mouth's red flower.

"O Love, what is it ails thy knight?

I sicken and I pine; Is it the red wine or the white, Or that sweet kiss of thine?"

"No kiss, no wine or white or red, Can make such sickness be, Lie down and die on thy bride-bed For I have poisoned thee.

"And though the curse of saints and men Upon me for it be, I would it were to do again Since thou wert false to me.

"Thou shouldst have loved or one or none, Nor she nor I loved twain, But we are twain thou hast undone, And therefore art thou slain.

"And when before my G.o.d I stand With no base flesh between, I shall hold up this guilty hand And He shall judge it clean."

He fell across the bridal bed Between the tapers pale: "I first shall see our G.o.d," he said, "And I will tell thy tale.

"And if G.o.d judge thee as I do, Then art thou justified.

I loved thee and I was not true, And that was why I died.

"If I could judge thee, thou shouldst be First of the saints on high; But ah, I fear G.o.d loveth thee Not half so dear as I!"

THE GHOST.

The year fades, as the west wind sighs, And droops in many-coloured ways, But your soft presence never dies From out the pathway of my days.

The spring is where you are, but still You from your heaven to me can bring Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill A thousand empty worlds with Spring.

I walk the wet and leafless woods; Your shadow ever goes before And paints the russet solitudes With colours Summer never wore.

I sit beside my lonely fire; The ghostly twilight brings your face And lights with memory and desire My desolated dwelling-place.

Among my books I feel your hand That turns the page just past my sight, Sometimes behind my chair you stand And read the foolish rhymes I write.

The old piano's keys I press In random chords until I hear Your voice, your rustling silken dress, And smell the violets that you wear.

I do not weep now any more, I think I hardly even sigh; I would not have you think I bore The kind of wound of which men die.

Believe that smooth content has grown Over the ghastly grave of pain-- "Content!" ... O lips, that were my own, That I shall never kiss again!

THE MODERN JUDAS.

For what wilt thou sell thy Lord?

"For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's good word."

But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy brothers cry scorn on thy name?

And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers shall clothe thee with shame?

For what shall thy brother be sold?

"For the rosy garland of pleasure, and the coveted crown of gold."

But thy soul will turn them to thorns, and to heaviness binding thy head, While women are dying of shame, and children are crying for bread.

For what wilt thou sell thy soul?

"For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt have gained the whole?

What profit the things thou hast, if the thing thou art be so mean?

Wilt thou fill, with the husks of having, the void of the might-have-been?

"But, when my soul shall be gone, No more shall I fail to profit by all the deeds I have done!

And wealth and the world and pleasure shall sing sweet songs in my ear When the stupid soul is silenced, which never would let me hear.

"And if a void there should be I shall not feel it or know it; it will be nothing to me!"

It will be nothing to thee, and thou shalt be nothing to men But a ghost whose treasure is lost, and who shall not find it again.

"But I shall have pleasure and praise!"

Praise shall not pleasure thee then, nor pleasure laugh in thy days: For as colour is not, without light, so happiness is not, without Thy Brother, the Lord whom thou soldest--and the soul that thou hast cast out!

THE SOUL TO THE IDEAL.

I will not hear thy music sweet!

If I should listen, then I know I should no more know friend from foe, But follow thy capricious feet-- Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet-- I will not go!