Lays and legends Part 5

LULLABY.

Sleep, my darling; mother will sing Soft low songs to her little king, n.o.body else must listen or hear The pretty secrets I tell my dear.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, Soon enough will the day be here.

Lie here quiet on mother's arm, Safe from harm; Nestled closely to mother's breast, Sleep and rest!

Mother feels your breath's soft stir Close to her; Mother holds you, clasps you tight, All the night.

When the little Jesus lay On the manger's hay, He was a Baby, if tales tell true, Just like you.

And He had no crown to wear But His bright hair; And such kisses as I give you He had too.

Mary never loved her Son More than I love my little one; And her Baby never smiled More divinely than my little child.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, All too soon will the day be here.

AN EAST-END TRAGEDY.

You said that you would never wed: "My love, my life's one work lie here, 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, Where all life's flower-petals are shed!"

You said.

I heard: I bowed to what I heard; I bowed my head and wors.h.i.+pped you-- So brave, so beautiful, so true-- How could I doubt a single word I heard?

My sweet, white lily! All the street, As you pa.s.sed by, grew clean again; The fallen, blackened souls of men Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, My sweet.

But one came, dared to woo, and won-- He heard your vows, and laughed at them; He plucked my lily from its stem-- Sacred to all men under sun, But one!

HERE AND THERE.

Ah me, how hot and weary here in town The days crawl by!

How otherwise they go my heart records, Where the marsh meadows lie And white sheep crop the gra.s.s, and seagulls sail Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.

Here the sun grins along the dusty street Beneath pale skies: Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, Hoa.r.s.e hawkers, curses, cries-- Through these I hear the song that the sea sings To the far meadowlands of Paradise.

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn-- O long sweet days-- O changing, unchanged skies, straight d.y.k.es all gay With sedge and water mace-- O fair marsh land desirable and dear-- How far from you lie my life's weary ways!

Yet in my darkest night there s.h.i.+nes a star More fair than day; There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white In the sad city way.

That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, That star s.h.i.+nes only when the skies are gray.

For here fair peace and pa.s.sionate pleasure wane Before the light Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, And turn to noon our night: We fight for freedom and the souls of men-- Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

MOTHER.

A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,-- But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle h.o.a.rds.

Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude.

Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar-- And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more.

A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY.

Across the grim, gray, northern sea The Danish wars.h.i.+ps went, Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men On blood and plunder bent; And they landed on a smiling land-- The garden-land of Kent.

They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn, They set the ricks aflame; They slew the men with axe and sword, They slew the maids with shame; Until, to Canterbury town, Made mad with blood, they came.

Archbishop Alphege walked the wall And looked down on the foe.

"Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored, "While yet a man may go!"

"Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried, "To shame your bishop so!

"What, would you have the shepherd flee, Like any hireling knave?

What, leave my church, my poor--G.o.d's poor, To a dark and prayerless grave?

No! by the body of my Lord, _My_ skin I will not save!"

And when men heard his true, strong word, They bore them as men should.

For twenty nights and twenty days The foemen they withstood, And, day and night, shone tapers bright, And incense veiled the rood.

The warriors manned the walls without, The monks prayed on within, Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer And valour fared to win, Whispered a traitor, who stole out And let the foemen in.

Then through the quiet church there ran A sudden breath of fear; The monks made haste to bar the door, And hide the golden gear; And to their lord once more they cried, "Hide, hide! the foe is here!"

Through all the church's windows showed The sudden laugh of flame; Along the street went trampling feet, And through the smoke there came The voice of women, calling shrill Upon the Saviour's name.

And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried, "Nor meet such foes as these!"

"Be still," he said, "hide if ye will, Live on, and take your ease!

By my Lord's death, _my_ latest breath, Like His, shall speak of peace!"

He strode along the dusky aisle, And flung the church doors wide; Bright armour shone, and blazing homes Lit up the world outside, And in the streets reeled to and fro A b.l.o.o.d.y human tide.

The mailed barbarians laughed aloud To see the brave blood flow; They trampled on the breast and hair Of girls their swords laid low, And on the points of reeking spears Tossed babies to and fro.