Collected Poems Volume I Part 21

_Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, Summon the day of deliverance in: We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn As we yearn for the home that we never shall win; For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin.

And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!

Ah, when shall the song of the ransomed begin?

The world is grown weary with waiting so long._

_Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave, There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes.

Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave As the skylark sings to those infinite skies!

This world is a dream, say the old and the wise, And its rainbows arise o'er the false and the true; But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,-- Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!_

_Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, Sound but a note as a little one may; And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose, And the Healer shall wipe all tears away; Little Boy Blue, we are all astray, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn, Ah, set the world right, as a little one may; Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!_

Yes; and there between the trees Circled with a misty gleam Like the light a mourner sees Round an angel in a dream; Was it he? oh, brave and slim, Straight and clad in aery blue, Lifting to his lips the dim Golden horn? We never knew!

Never; for a witch's hair Flooded all the moonlit sky, And he vanished, then and there, In the twinkling of an eye: Just as either boyish cheek Puffed to set the world aright, Ere the golden horn could speak Round him flowed the purple night.

At last we came to a round black road That tunnelled through the woods and showed, Or so we thought, a good clear way Back to the upper lands of day; Great silken cables overhead In many a mighty mesh were spread Netting the rounded arch, no doubt To keep the weight of leaf.a.ge out.

And, as the tunnel narrowed down, So thick and close the cords had grown No leaf could through their meshes stray, And the faint moonlight died away; Only a strange grey glimmer shone To guide our weary footsteps on, Until, tired out, we stood before The end, a great grey silken door.

Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with s.h.a.ggy hair Like a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye, Two great eyeb.a.l.l.s and a beard For one ghastly moment peered At our faces with a sudden stealthy stare: Then the door was open wide, And a hideous hermit cried With a shy and soothing smile from out his lair, _Won't you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!_

And we couldn't quite remember where we'd heard that phrase before, As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door; But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky-- _Won't you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!_

Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stood With his great red eyeb.a.l.l.s glowing like two torches in a wood, And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching claws And his nose--a h.o.r.n.y parrot's beak, his whiskers and his jaws; Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend, As he murmured, "I'm so ugly, but I've lost my dearest friend!

I tell you most lymphatic'ly, I've yearnings in my soul,"-- And right along his parrot's beak we saw the tear-drops roll; _He's an arrant sentimentalist_, we heard a distant sigh, _Won't you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly._

"If you'd dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you'd seen my works of art, If you'd felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart, And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can't forget, (For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!) Oh, you'd all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak; And I'm full of melting moments; and--I--know--the--thing--you--seek!"

And the haunting echo answered, _Well, I'm sure you ought to try; There's a duty to one's neighbour, said the spider to the fly._

So we walked into his parlour Though a gleam was in his eye; And it _was_ the prettiest parlour That ever we did spy!

But we saw by the uncertain Misty light, shot through with gleams Of many a silken curtain Broidered o'er with dreadful dreams, That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breath In a silence deep as death.

There were scarlet gleams and crimson In the curious foggy grey, Like the blood-red light that swims on Old ca.n.a.ls at fall of day, Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veils Round the heavy purple barges' tawny sails.

Were those creatures gagged and m.u.f.fled, See--there--by that severed head?

Was it but a breeze that ruffled Those dark curtains, splashed with red, Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain?

How we wished that we were safe at home again.

"Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know; Won't you tell us, won't you put us in the way we want to go?"

So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tears That we couldn't doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears; But he said, "You must be crazy if you come to me for help; Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?"

And again, the foolish echo made a far-away reply, _Oh, don't come to me for comfort, Pray don't look to me for comfort, Heavens! you mustn't be so selfish, said the spider to the fly._

"Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole, He was aided by my brother; it's a story to console The convict of the treadmill and the infant with a sum, For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom's come!

The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of time Until my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb: He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny thread Across a mighty precipice, and light upon his head Without a single fracture and without a single pain If he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:"

And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by, _Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly._

Then he moaned, "My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat, (Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!) For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly sat While I told you all my troubles in a confidential chat It would give me _such_ an appet.i.te to hear you sympathise, And I should sleep the better--see, the tears are in my eyes!

Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let's keep 'em all alive,-- Let's sit and talk awhile, my dears; we'll dine, I think, at five."

And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style, And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.--

"You remember Miss m.u.f.fet Who sat on a tuffet Partaking of curds and whey; Well, _I_ am the spider Who sat down beside her And frightened Miss m.u.f.fet away!

"There was nothing against her!

An elderly spinster Were such a grammatical mate For a spider and spinner, I swore I would win her, I knew I had met with my fate!

"That love was the purest And strongest and surest I'd felt since my first thread was spun; I know I'm a bogey, But _she's_ an old fogey, So why in the world did she run?

"When Bruce was in trouble, A spider, my double, Encouraged him greatly, they say!

Now, _why_ should the spider Who sat down beside her Have frightened Miss m.u.f.fet away?"

He seemed to have much more to tell, But we could scarce be listening well, Although we tried with all our might To look attentive and polite; For still afar we heard the thin Clear fairy-call to Peterkin; Clear as a skylark's mounting song It drew our wandering thoughts along.

Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh, Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky, In captive dreams that brooked no bars It touched the love that moves the stars, And with sweet music's golden tether It bound our hearts and heaven together.

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_Wake, arise, the lake, the skies Fade into the faery day; Come and sing before our king, Heed not Time, the dotard grey; Time has given his crown to heaven-- Ah, how long? Awake, away!_

Then, as the Hermit rambled on In one long listless monotone, We heard a wild and mournful groan Come rumbling down the tunnelled way; A voice, an awful mournful bray, Singing some old funereal lay; Then solemn footsteps, m.u.f.fled, dull, Approached as if they trod on wool, And as they nearer, nearer drew, We saw our Host was listening too!

His bulging eyes began to glow Like great red match-heads rubbed at night, And then he stole with a grim "O-ho!"

To that grey old wicket where, out of sight, Blandly rubbing his hands and humming, He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.

He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before, As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door; And flung it open wide And most hospitably cried, "Won't you walk into my parlour? I've some little friends to tea,-- They'll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy, Such as you yourself must be!"

Then the man, for so he seemed, (Doubtless one who'd lost his way And was dwarfed as we had been!) In his ancient suit of black, Black upon the verge of green, Entered like a ghost that dreamed Sadly of some bygone day; And he never ceased to sing In that awful mournful bray.

The door closed behind his back; He walked round us in a ring, And we hoped that he might free us, But his tears appeared to blind him, For he didn't seem to see us, And the Hermit crept behind him Like a cat about to spring.

And the song he sang was this; And his nose looked very grand As he sang it, with a bliss Which we could not understand; For his voice was very sad, While his nose was proud and glad.

_Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!

Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears, Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years, Rain, April, rain._

_Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad; Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had; A little while, till I no more be sad, Rain, April, rain._

And then the spider sprang Before we could breathe or speak, And one great scream out-rang As the terrible h.o.r.n.y beak Crunched into the Sad Man's head, And the terrible hairy claws Clutched him around his middle; And he opened his lantern-jaws, And he gave one twist, one twiddle, One kick, and his sorrow was dead.

And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey, The spider leered at us--"You will do, My sweet little dears, for another day; But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!"

And there we stood, in frozen fear, Whiter than death, With bated breath; And lo! as we thought of Peterkin, Father and home and Peterkin, Once more that music clear and thin, Clear as a skylark's mounting song, But nearer now, more sweet, more strong, Drew all our wandering thoughts along, Until it seemed, a mystic sea Of hidden delight and harmony Began to ripple and rise all round The prison where our hearts lay bound; And from sweet heaven's most rosy rim There swelled a distant marching hymn Which made the hideous Hermit pause And listen with lank down-dropt jaws, Till, with great bulging eyes of fear, He sought the wicket again to peer Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain We heard the still approaching strain, And, under it, the rhythmic beat Of mult.i.tudinous marching feet.

Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang, And this was the marching song they sang:--

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