Lays and legends Part 9

Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.

A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar; The lights come out down in the little town, 'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.

Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?

Did your heart breed those bitterer replies-- Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?

Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid, Life being so little and love so great a thing?

The price of all life's follies has been paid When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.

Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pa.s.s Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed.

Tread here between the mounds of flowered gra.s.s; Tread softly over these forgotten dead.

We are alive, and here--O love! O wife!

While life is ours, and we are yours and mine, How dare we crush the blossom of our life?

How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?

Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now, And life is all too short for love, my dear.

When one of us beneath these flowers lies low, The other will remember we kissed here.

Some one some day will come here all alone And look out on the desolated years, With bitter tears of longing for the one Who will not then be here to dry the tears!

CHANGE.

There's a little house by an orchard side Where the Spring wears pink and white; There's a garden with pansies and London pride, And a bush of lad's delight.

Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen As trim as a garden can be, And the gra.s.s of the orchard is much more green Than most of the gra.s.s you see.

There used to be always a mother's smile And a father's face at the door, When one clambered over the orchard stile, So glad to be home once more.

But now I never go by that way, For when I was there of late, A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, And a stranger leaned on the gate.

THE MILL.

The wheel goes round--the wheel goes round With drip and whir and plash, It keeps all green the gra.s.sy ground, The alder, beech and ash.

The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool, Forget-me-nots are found Blue in the shadow by the pool-- And still the wheel goes round.

Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, The foam is white like cream, The merry waters dance and reel Along the stony stream.

The little garden of the mill, It is enchanted ground, I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life's wheel too must go-- But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know.

Her window's blank. The garden's bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart's delight is there, And still the wheel goes round.

RONDEAU.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through, And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings Delicious memories of lost things, A red rose, sweet--yet sad as rue.

'Twas a red rose you gave me--you Whose gifts so sacred were, and few-- And that is why your lover sings A red, red rose.

I sing--with lute untuned, untrue, And worse than other lovers do, Because perplexing memory stings-- Because from your green grave there springs, With your spilt life-blood coloured through, A red, red rose.

A MeSALLIANCE.

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear, I live in splendour and state; But I'd give it all to be young once more, And steal through the old low-lintelled door, To watch at the orchard gate.

There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear, Fair blossoms, wondrous and new; But all the flowers that a hot-house grows I would give for the scent of a certain rose That a cottage garden grew!

Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair, Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow-- I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!

I would give you all for a daisy or two From a little grave I know.

THE LAST THOUGHT.

It's weary lying here, While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near, And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room, When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom-- Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are-- So far away, so far!

They say that I shall die-- And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by: But oh! my red-roofed village--I should die with more content Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent, And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door, For one who comes no more.

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMe.

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed Between the images that guard our roadway, Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels-- Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo-- The men of Cyme he has counselled often-- Ask of the G.o.d an answer to our question, Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dae.

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian, Has sought in Cyme refuge and protection; The Persian bids us yield--our hearts bid s.h.i.+eld him, What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

The Oracle replied--and straight returning To Cyme ran the messengers fleet-footed, Brought to the citizens the Sun-G.o.d's answer: "Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".