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G.o.d's rod of avenging morrows, And the life here in my side!
O Mother, G.o.d's Mother of Sorrows, For both I would have died!
By the wall of the Chantry kneeling, I pray and the organ rings, "_Gloria! gloria!_" pealing, "_Sancta Maria_" sings!
They will find us dead to-morrow By the wall of their nunnery, O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrow!
His unborn babe and me.
THE OLD INN.
1.
Red-winding from the sleepy town, One takes the lone, forgotten lane Straight through the hills. A brush-bird brown Bubbles in thorn-flowers sweet with rain; Light s.h.i.+vers sink the gleaming grain; The cautious drip of higher leaves The lower dips that drip again.-- Above the tangled tops it heaves Its gables and its haunted eaves.
2.
One creeper, gnarled to bloomlessness, O'er-forests all its eastern wall; The sighing cedars rake and press Dark boughs along the panes they sprawl; While, where the sun beats, breaks a drawl Of hiving wasps; one bushy bee, Gold-dusty, hurls along the hall To hum into a crack.--To me The shadows seem too scared to flee.
3.
Of ragged chimneys martins make Huge pipes of music; twittering here Build, breed, and roost.--My footfalls wake Strange stealing echoes, till I fear I'll meet my pale self coming near; My phantom face as in a gla.s.s; Or one men murdered, buried--where?
Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, pa.s.s With lips that seem to moan "Alas."
LAST DAYS.
Aye! heartbreak of the tattered hills, And mourning of the raining sky!
Heartbreak and mourning, since G.o.d wills, Are mine, and G.o.d knows why!
The brutal wind that herds the storm In hail-big clouds that freeze along, As this gray heart are doubly warm With thrice the joy of song.
I held one dearer than each day Of life G.o.d sets in limpid gold-- What thief hath stole that gem away To leave me poor and old!
The heartbreak of the hills be mine, Of trampled twig and mired leaf, Of rain that sobs through thorn and pine An unavailing grief!
The sorrow of the childless skies'
_Good-nights_, long said, yet never said, As when I kissed my child's blue eyes And lips ice-dumb and dead.
THE ROMANZA.
In a kingdom of mist and moonlight, Or ever the world was known, Past leagues of unsailed water, There reigned a king with a daughter That shone like a starry stone.
The day grew out o' the moonlight; But never a day was there.
The king was wise as h.o.a.ry, And his daughter, like the glory Of seven kingdoms, fair.
And the night dimmed over the moonlight,-- And ever the mist was gray,-- With slips of dull stars, bluer Where the princess met her wooer, A page like the month o' May.
In her eyes the mist, and the moonlight In hair of a crumpled gold; By day they wooed a-hawking, A-hawking laughed, a-mocking The good, white king and old.
On the sea the mist, and the moonlight Poured pale to the lilies' tips;-- At eve, when the hawks were feeding, In courts to the kennels leading, He kissed her mouth and lips.
On towers the mist, and the moonlight On a dead face staring up;-- His kingly couch was ready, But and her hand was steady Giving the poisoned cup.
MY ROMANCE.
If it so befalls that the midnight hovers In mist no moonlight breaks, The leagues of years my spirit covers, And myself myself forsakes.
And I live in a land of stars and flowers, White cliffs by a silver sea; And the pearly points of her opal towers From the mountains beckon me.
And I think that I know that I hear her calling From a cas.e.m.e.nt bathed with light-- The music of waters in waters falling To palms from a rocky height.
And I feel that I think my love's awaited By the romance of her charms; That her feet are early and mine belated In a world that chains my arms.
But I break my chains and the rest is easy-- In the shadow of the rose Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy, We meet and no one knows.
To dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses; The world--it may live or die; The world that forgets, the soul that misses The life that has long gone by.
We speak old vows that have long been spoken, And weep a long-gone woe,-- For you must know our hearts were broken Hundreds of years ago.
THE EPIC.
"To arms!" the battle bugles blew.
The daughter of their Earl was she, Lord of a thousand swords and true; He but a squire of low degree.
The horns of war blew up to horse: He kissed her mouth; her face was white; "G.o.d grant they bear thee back no corse!"-- "G.o.d give I win my spurs to-night!"
Each watch-tower's blazing beacon scarred A blood-blot in the wounded dark: She heard knights gallop battleward, And from the turret leaned to mark.
"My G.o.d, deliver me and mine!
My child! my G.o.d!" all night she prayed: She saw the battle beacons s.h.i.+ne; She saw the battle beacons fade.
