The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lays and legends, by Edith Nesbit This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Lays and legends (Second Series) Author: Edith Nesbit Release Date: December 23, 2012 [EBook #41693] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's note: The original hyphenation, spelling, and use of accented words has been retained. Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the original text. E. Nesbit LAYS AND LEGENDS (SECOND SERIES) BY E. NESBIT (Mrs. Hubert Bland) AUTHOR OF "LAYS AND LEGENDS," "LEAVES OF LIFE," ETC. WITH PORTRAIT LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET 1892 [All Rights reserved] My thanks are due to the Editors and Publishers who have kindly allowed me to use here verses written for them. TO ALICE HOATSON, HELEN MACKLIN, AND CHARLOTTE WILSON, In token of indebtment. In token of indebtment. ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS 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— 1 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 God 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 God," he said, "And I will tell thy tale. "And if God 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 God loveth thee Not half so dear as I!" THE GHOST. 2 3 4 5 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. 6 7 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! I will not go away! Away From reeds and pool why should I go To where sun burns, and hot winds blow? Here sleeps cool twilight all the day; Do I not love thy tune? No, no! I will not say! I will not say I love thy tune; I do not know if so it be; It surely is enough for me To know I love cool rest at noon, Spread thy bright wings—ah, go—go soon! I will not see! I will not see thy gleaming wings, I will not hear thy music clear. It is not love I feel, but fear; I love the song the marsh-frog sings, But thine, which after-sorrow brings, I will not hear! A DEATH-BED. A man of like passions with ourselves. 8 9 10 11 12 It is too late, too late! The wine is spilled, the altar violate; Now all the foolish virtues of the past— Its joys that could not last, Its flowers that had to fade, Its bliss so long delayed, Its sun so soon o'ercast, Its faith so soon betrayed, Its prayers so madly prayed, Its wildly-fought-for right, Its dear renounced delight, Its passions and its pain— All these stand gray about My bed, like ghosts from Paradise shut out, And I, in torment, lying here alone, See what myself have done— How all good things were butchered, one by one. Not one of these but life has fouled its name, Blotted it out with sin and loss and shame— Until my whole life's striving is made vain. It is too late, too late! My house is left unto me desolate. Yet what if here, Through this despair too dark for dreams of fear, Through the last bitterness of the last vain tear, One saw a face— Human—not turned away from man's disgrace— A face divinely dear— A head that had a crown of thorns to wear; If there should come a hand Drawing this tired head to a place of rest On a most loving breast; And as one felt that one could almost bear To tell the whole long sickening trivial tale Of how one came so utterly to fail Of all one once knew that one might attain— If one should feel consoling arms about, Shutting one in, shutting the black past out— Should feel the tears that washed one clean again, And turn, made dumb with love and shame, to hear: "My child, my child, do I not understand?" THE LOST SOUL AND THE SAVED. I. 13 14 Oh, rapture of infinite peace! Many are weeping without; From the lost crowd of these, God, Thou hast lifted me out! Though strong be the devil's net, Thy grace, O God, is more strong; I never was tempted yet To even the edge of wrong. The world never fired my brain, The flesh never moved my heart— Thou hast spared me the strife and strain, The struggle and sorrow and smart. The dreams that never were deeds, The thought that shines not in word, The struggle that never succeeds— Thou hast saved me from these, O Lord! I stood in my humble place While those who aimed high fell low; Oh the glorious gift of Thy grace The souls of Thy saved ones know! And yet if in heaven at last, When all is won and is well, Dear hands stretch out from the past, Dear voices call me from hell— My love whom I long for yet, My little one gone astray!— No; God will make me forget In His own wise wonderful way. Oh the infinite marvels of grace, Oh the great atonement's cost! Lifting my soul above Those other souls that are lost! Mine are the harp and throne, Theirs is the outer night. This, my God, Thou has done, And all that Thou dost is right! II. 15 16 Lost as I am—degraded, foul, polluted, Sunk in deep sloughs of failure and of sin, Yet is my hell by God's great grace commuted, For what I lose the others yet may win. I—sport of flesh and fate—in all my living Met the world's laughter and the Christian's frown, Ever the spirit fiercely vainly striving, Ever the flesh, triumphant, laughed it down. Down, lower still, but ever battling vainly, Dying to win, yet living to be lost, My soul through depths where all its guilt showed plainly Into the chaos of despair was tossed. Yet not despair. I see far off a splendour; Here from my hell I see a heaven on high For those brave men whom earth could never render Cowards as foul and beasts as base as I! Hell is not hell lit by such consolation, Heaven were not heaven that lacked a thought like this— That, though my soul may never see salvation, God yet saves all these other souls of His! The waves of death come faster, faster, faster; Christ, ere I perish, hear my heart's last word— It was not I denied my Lord and Master; The flesh denied Thee, not the spirit, Lord. And God be praised that other men are wearing The white, white flower I trampled as I trod; That all fail not, that all are not despairing, That all are not as I, I thank Thee, God! AT THE PRISON GATE. And underneath us are the everlasting arms. Once by a foreign prison gate, Deep in the gloom of frowning stone, I saw a woman, desolate, Sitting alone; Immeasurable pain enwound Infinite anguish lapped her round, As the sea laps some sunken shore Where flowers will blossom never more. Despair sat shrined in her dry eyes— Her heart, I thought, in blood must weep For hopes that never more can rise From their death-sleep; And round her hovered phantoms gray— Ghosts of delight dead many a day; And all the thorns of life seemed wed In one sharp crown about her head. And all the poor world's aching heart Beat there, I thought, and could not break. Oh! to be strong to bear the smart— The vast heart-ache! Then through my soul a clear light shone; What I would do, my Lord has done; He bore the whole world's crown of thorn— For her sake, too, that crown was worn! 17 18 19 THE DEVIL'S DUE. A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free labour of love—as was men's wont in those days; and how the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the pillage of the poor—and of what chanced thereafter. Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, For warning in your younger ears, Humbly and plainly what befel That year—gone by a many years— When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men: We see not now their like again. We built it on the green hill-side That leans its bosom o'er the town, So that its presence, sanctified, Might ever on our lives look down. We built; and those who built not, they Brought us their blessing day by day, And lingered to rejoice and pray. For years the masons toiled, for years The craftsmen wrought till they had made A church we scarce could see for tears— Its fairness made our love afraid. Its clear-cut cream-white tracery Stood out against the deep bright sky Like good deeds 'gainst eternity. In the deep roof each separate beam Had its own garland—ivy, vine,— Giving to man the carver's dream, In sight of men a certain sign— And all day long the workers plied. "The church shall finished be," we cried, "And consecrate by Easter-tide." Our church! It was so fair, so dear, So fit a church to praise God in! It had such show of carven gear, Such chiselled work, without, within! Such marble for the steps and floor, Such window-jewels and such store Of gold and gems the altar bore! Each stone by loving hands was hewn, By loving hands each beam was sawn; The hammers made a merry tune In winter dusk and summer dawn. Love built the house, but gold had paid For that wherewith the house was made. "Would love had given all!" we said. But poor in all save love were we, And he was poor in all save gold Who gave the gold. By usury Were gained his riches manifold. We knew that? If we knew, we thought 'Tis good if men do good in aught, And by good works may heaven be bought! At last the echo died in air Of the last stroke. The silence then Passed in to fill the church, left bare Of the loving voice of Christian men. The silence saddened all the sun, So gladly was our work begun. Now all that happy work was done. Did any voices in the night Call through those arches? Were there wings That swept between the pillars white— Wide pinions of unvisioned things? 20 21 22 23 Wide pinions of unvisioned things? The priests who watched the relics heard Wing-whispers—not of bat or bird— And moan of inarticulate word. Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air Adorned our church, and there were borne Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair To grace the consecration morn. Then round our church trooped knight and dame; Within, alone, the bishop came, And the twelve candles leaped to flame. Then round our church the bishop went With all his priests—a brave array. There was no sign nor portent sent As, glad at heart, he went his way, Sprinkling the holy water round Three times on walls and crowd and ground Within the churchyard's sacred bound. Then—but ye know the function's scope At consecration—all the show Of torch and incense, stole and cope; And how the acolytes do go Before the bishop—how they bear The lighted tapers, flaming fair, Blown back by the sweet wavering air. The bishop, knocking at the door, The deacon answering from within, "Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure The King of Glory shall come in"— The bishop passed in with the choir. Thank God for this—our soul's desire, Our altar, meet for heaven's fire! The bishop, kneeling in his place Where our bright windows made day dim, With all heaven's glory in his face, Began the consecration hymn: "Veni," he sang, in clear strong tone. Then—on the instant—song was done, Its very echo scattered—gone! For, as the bishop's voice rang clear, Another voice rang clearer still— A voice wherein the soul could hear The discord of unmeasured ill— And sudden breathless silence fell On all the church. And I wot well There are such silences in hell. Taper and torch died down—went out— And all our church grew dark and cold, And deathly odours crept about, And chill, as of the churchyard mould; And every flower drooped its head, And all the rose's leaves were shed, And all the lilies dropped down dead. There, in the bishop's chair, we saw— How can I tell you? Memories shrink To mix anew the cup of awe We shuddering mortals had to drink. What was it? There! The shape that stood Before the altar and the rood— It was not human flesh and blood! A light more bright than any sun, A shade more dark than any night, A shape that human shape was none, A cloud, a sense of wingëd might, And, like an infernal trumpet sound, Rang through the church's hush profound 23 24 25 26 Rang through the church's hush profound A voice. We listened horror-bound. "Venio! Cease, cease to consecrate! Love built the church, but it is mine! 'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate, Cemented by man's blood divine. Whence came the gold that paid for this? From pillage of the poor, I wis— That gold was mine, and mine this is! "Your King has cursed the usurer's gold, He gives it to me for my fee! Your church is builded, but behold Your church is fair for me—for me! Who robs the poor to me is given; Impenitent and unforgiven, His church is built for hell, not heaven!" Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear, And all men stood as turned to stone; Each man beheld through dews of fear A face—his own—yet not his own; His own face, darkened, lost, debased, With hell's own signet stamped and traced, And all the God in it effaced. A crash like thunder shook the walls, A flame like lightning shot them through: "Fly, fly before the judgment falls, And all the stones be fallen on you!" And as we fled we saw bright gleams Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams. Our church! Oh, love—oh, hopes—oh, dreams! We stood without—a pallid throng— And as the flame leaped high and higher, Shrill winds we heard that rushed along And fanned the transports of the fire. The sky grew black; against the sky The blue and scarlet flames leaped high, And cries as of lost souls wailed by. The church in glowing vesture stood, The lead ran down as it were wax, The great stones cracked and burned like wood, The wood caught fire and flamed like flax: A horrid chequered light and shade, By smoke and flame alternate made, Upon men's upturned faces played. Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire— A blackened ruin—fell and lay. The very earth about caught fire, And flame-tongues licked along the clay. The fire did neither stay nor spare Till the foundations were laid bare To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air. There in the sight of men it lay, Our church that we had made so fair! A heap of ashes white and gray, With sparks still gleaming here and there. The sun came out again, and shone On all our loving work undone— Our church destroyed, our labour gone! Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no! The hands that builded built aright: The men who loved and laboured so, Their church is built in heaven's height! In every stone a glittering gem, Gold in the gold Jerusalem— The church their love built waits for them. 27 28 29 LOVE IN JUNE. Through the glowing meadows aflame With buttercup gold I came To the green, still heart of the wood. A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed, The hazel-stems grew close, Like leaves round the heart of a rose, Round the still, green nest that I chose. Then I gathered the bracken that grew In a fairy forest all round, And I laid it in heaps on the ground With grass and blossoms and leaves. I gathered the summer in sheaves, And pale, rare roses a few, And spread out a carpet meet For the touch of my lady's feet. I waited; the wood was still; Only one little brown bird On a hazel swayed and stirred With the impulse of his song; And I waited, and time was long. Then I heard a step on the grass In the path where the others pass, And a voice like a voice in a dream; And I saw a glory, a gleam, A flash of white through the green (Her arms and her gown are white); And the summer sighed her name As she and the sunshine came: O sun and blue sky and delight! O eyes and lips of my queen! What was done there or said No one will ever know, For nobody saw or heard Save one little, brown, bright bird Who swayed on a twig overhead, And he will never betray; But all who pass by that way, As they near the spot where we lay Among the blossoms and grass Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick (Though it lies out of reach, out of sight Of the path where the world may pass), Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers, That rhymes with the summer and sun, With the lover to win or won, With the wild-flower crown of delight, The crown of love that was ours. THE GARDEN. 30 31 32 33 My garden was lovely to see, For all things fair, Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, I had planted there. There were pinks and lilies and stocks, Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, And clematis white and blue, And pansies and daisies and phlox. And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, And all things were ready to greet my lady On the Life's-love-crowning day When she should come To her lover's home, To give herself to me. I saw the red of the roses— The royal roses that bloomed for her sake. "They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: They shall droop on her heart and die." I dreamed in the orchard-closes: "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: And thank God for this". I leaned where the jasmine white Wreathed all my window round: "Here we will lean, I and my queen, And look out on the broad moonlight. For there shall be moonlight—bright— On my wedding-night." She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours. The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered—to honour and sorrow born. They lay round her, touched her close. The jasmine stars—white stars, that about our window their faint light shed, Lay round her head. And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand. They lie by her—rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest— I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude— Where she never stood— On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow,— As if any one cared How they fared! And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword— Life's pitiless Lord— And I know I never may pass. Alas! alas! O Rose! my rose! I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of God. PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES. 34 35 36 O God, let there be rain! Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain,— Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain. Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main! Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O God, let there be rain! O God, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain! To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety. Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, And some day send us the sun again. O God, let there be rain! A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE. 37 38 Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too,—or so it seems— Dust in the place of dreams. Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name. Work is the end and aim of their lives— Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun! Work—one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease. Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night? God will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you—every one— Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work—in hell! LONDON'S VOICES SPEAK TO TWO SOULS—WHO THUS REPLY: I. In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions—is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?— That flowers like mine may grow along their way? Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. I can do nothing—even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again! II. 39 40 41