The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Childhood, by Walter de la Mare 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: Songs of Childhood Author: Walter de la Mare Commentator: Anthony Hecht Release Date: November 19, 2007 [EBook #23545] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF CHILDHOOD *** Produced by David Starner, Colin Bell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Songs of Childhood by Walter Ramal [Walter de la Mare] with a preface for the Garland edition by Anthony Hecht Garland Publishing, Inc., New York & London 1976 Bibliographical note: This facsimile has been made from a copy in the Beinecke Library of Yale University. (Iq.D373.902) Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data De La Mare, Walter John, 1873-1956. Songs of childhood. (Classics of children's literature, 1621-1932) Reprint of the 1902 ed. published by Longmans, Green, London, New York. "Walter de la Mare (1873-1956), bibliography of his books for children": p. SUMMARY: A collection of forty-seven poems about subjects and experiences familiar to children. [1. English poetry] I. Title. II. Series. [PR6007.E3S6 1976] 821'.9'12 75-32200 ISBN 0-8240-2310-2 Printed in the United States of America Preface The Romantic poets rediscovered a pastoral and Biblical dream: that a child was the most innocent and the wisest of us all. Wordsworth hailed him as "Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!" And in the next generation Victorian novelists took that dream seriously enough to make children the heroes and heroines of their most searching fictions. There had been no "children's literature" to speak of before, except for the oral and "popular" tradition, including lullabies and Mother Goose, some of which go back as far as Tudor and even medieval times. Children's literature today is an immense and complex domain; and leaving aside for the present the works composed by children themselves, what remains varies tremendously in skill and delight, as well as in subtlety and intention. So I shall also set aside those minimal "vocabulary-building" tales and verses whose small virtues are rarely more than therapeutic, and direct myself only to that specialized but most important category—poems written by a skilled and adult poet but addressed to an audience of children who are likely to be read to until they are skillful enough to read the same verses for themselves. The dangers for the poet in addressing so composite an audience are enormous: cuteness, coyness, archness and condescension are only the most obvious ones. Some great writers of children's verse—Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear—have successfully hedged themselves against these dangers by insistent comedy and parody (Carroll's "serious" children's verse is maudlin and embarrassing). By this means they have contrived what the child will take as lovely, unintimidating, mysterious, rational nonsense, and what the adult will recognize as a travesty or burlesque of something very edgy indeed. Thus, Lear's "The Dong with the Luminous Nose" and Carroll's "Jabberwocky" are, respectively, bright and disguised versions of gothic terror and misery on the one hand, and medieval knightly exploit on the other, both rendered innocuous for the nursery and ridiculous for the adult. The risks of seriousness have been successfully avoided. The poetry of Walter de la Mare sings boldly and beautifully without any of these hedges and condescensions. His work has the honest candor of the border ballads and the fairy tales: as well as unmitigated joys, they are full of the dangers and horrors and sorrows that every child soon knows to be part of the world, however vainly parents try to veil them. A child's curiosity about the forbidden will insist on being satisfied; and better by verse than otherwise. This poetry is also musically astute and demanding; it may surprise and alert the parental reader; and it has its share of archaisms and poeticisms, which, contrary to adult surmise, bemuse and fascinate children. And it must be admitted that it is also relentlessly British; but then, so is much good children's literature. As a poet (he was also a gifted novelist and short-story writer) de la Mare was praised by T. S. Eliot ("the delicate, invisible web you wove") and by W. H. Auden ("there are no good poems which are only for children"). His technical and linguistic skills are not, as Auden rightly points out, a matter of indifference to children, who are in the very business of learning language, as well as other facts of life, and who are particularly sensitive to verbal rhythms, as Iona and Peter Opie have splendidly demonstrated in The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren. Just as important, this is a poetry of charms and spells, witches and dwarfs, ogres and fairies, full of dangers, omens, riddles and triumphs. In "The Ogre," for example, two sleeping children are about to be plucked by an enormous ogre from their home: Into their dreams no shadow fell Of his disastrous thumb Groping discreet, and gradual, Across the quiet room. But he is stopped, spellbound, abashed and defeated by the mother of the children, who is in another room and, all unaware of the danger, is singing a version of the Coventry Carol (which, in its original, is addressed to the Christ Child) as a lullaby to her new-born baby. I would guess that any child fortunate enough to grow up with these poems ringing in memory's ear might have a remarkable reservoir of music and excitement available to him. That is not a small gift. Anthony Hecht ANTHONY HECHT teaches in the English Department of the University of Rochester. He is the author of several books of poetry, of which the most recent are The Hard Hours (1967) and Aesopic (1968). His poems appear in many anthologies and he has contributed to the Hudson Review, the New York Review of Books, Quarterly Review of Literature, and other periodicals. He also translated (with Helen H. Bacon) Aeschylus' Seven Against Thebes (1973). WALTER DE LA MARE (1873-1956) Bibliography of His Books for Children (Poetry): Songs of Childhood. London 1902. A Child's Day: a Book of Rhymes to Pictures by C. W. Cadby. London 1912. Peacock Pie: a Book of Rhymes. London 1913. Down-adown-derry: a Book of Fairy Poems. London 1922. Stuff and Nonsense. London 1927. Poems for Children. London [1930]. This Year, Next Year. London 1937. Bells and Grass. London 1941. Collected Rhymes and Verses. London 1944. Bibliography of His Books for Children (Stories, Plays): The Three Mulla-mulgars. London 1910. Crossings; a Fairy Play, with Music by E. A. Gibbs. London 1921. Story and Rhyme. London 1921. Broomsticks and Other Tales. London 1925. Miss Jemima. Oxford [1925]. Told Again: Traditional Tales. Oxford 1927. Readings: Traditional Tales 1925-1928. Oxford 1928. Old Joe. Oxford [1927]. Stories from the Bible. London 1929. The Lord Fish and Other Tales. London [1933]. The Old Lion and Other Stories. London 1942. The Magic Jacket and Other Stories. London 1943. The Scarecrow and Other Stories. London 1944. The Dutch Cheese and Other Stories. London 1946. Collected Stories for Children. London 1947. Selected References: Atkins, John W. H. Walter de la Mare: an Exploration. London [1947]. Clark, L. Walter de la Mare (a Bodley monograph). London 1960. McCrosson, D. R. Walter de la Mare. New York 1966. SONGS OF CHILDHOOD Under the Dock Leaves Under the Dock Leaves, by Richard Doyle. Songs of Childhood By WALTER RAMAL WITH FRONTISPIECE LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK AND BOMBAY 1902 CONTENTS 'UNDER THE DOCK LEAVES,' From a drawing by Richard Doyle in the possession of C. J. Longman, Esq. Frontispiece Page THE GNOMIES, 1 BLUEBELLS, 3 LOVELOCKS, 4 O DEAR ME! 5 TARTARY, 6 THE BUCKLE, 8 THE HARE, 9 BUNCHES OF GRAPES, 10 JOHN MOULDY, 11 THE FLY, 12 SONG, 13 I SAW THREE WITCHES, 14 THE SILVER PENNY, 16 THE NIGHT-SWANS, 18 THE FAIRIES DANCING, 20 REVERIE, 22 THE THREE BEGGARS, 24 THE DWARF, 27 ALULVAN, 30 THE PEDLAR, 32 THE GREY WOLF, 36 THE OGRE, 37 DAME HICKORY, 41 THE PILGRIM, 43 THE GAGE, 48 AS LUCY WENT A-WALKING, 53 THE ENGLISHMAN, 58 THE PHANTOM, 62 THE MILLER AND HIS SON, 68 DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY, 71 THE SUPPER, 75 THE ISLE OF LONE, 78 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY, 83 THE HORN, 84 CAPTAIN LEAN, 85 THE PORTRAIT OF A WARRIOR, 87 HAUNTED, 88 THE RAVEN'S TOMB, 90 THE CHRISTENING, 91 THE MOTHER BIRD, 93 THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED, 94 THE CHILD IN THE STORY AWAKES, 96 THE LAMPLIGHTER, 98 CECIL, 100 I MET AT EVE, 102 LULLABY 104 ENVOY, 106 THE GNOMIES As I lay awake in the white moonlight, I heard a sweet singing in the wood— 'Out of bed, Sleepyhead, Put your white foot now, Here are we, 'Neath the tree, Singing round the root now!' I looked out of window in the white moonlight, The trees were like snow in the wood— 'Come away Child and play, Light wi' the gnomies; In a mound, Green and round, That's where their home is! 'Honey sweet, Curds to eat, Cream and frumènty, Shells and beads, Poppy seeds, You shall have plenty.' But soon as I stooped in the dim moonlight To put on my stocking and my shoe, The sweet, sweet singing died sadly away, And the light of the morning peep'd through: Then instead of the gnomies there came a red robin To sing of the buttercups and dew. BLUEBELLS Where the bluebells and the wind are, Fairies in a ring I spied, And I heard a little linnet Singing near beside. Where the primrose and the dew are, Soon were sped the fairies all: Only now the green turf freshens, And the linnets call. LOVELOCKS I watched the Lady Caroline Bind up her dark and beauteous hair; Her face was rosy in the glass, And 'twixt the coils her hands would pass, White in the candleshine. Her bottles on the table lay, Stoppered yet sweet of violet; Her image in the mirror stooped To view those locks as lightly looped As cherry-boughs in May. The snowy night lay dim without, I heard the Waits their sweet song sing; The window smouldered keen with frost; Yet still she twisted, sleeked and tossed Her beauteous hair about. O DEAR ME! Here are crocuses, white, gold, grey! 'O dear me!' says Marjorie May; Flat as a platter the blackberry blows: 'O dear me!' says Madeleine Rose; The leaves are fallen, the swallows flown: 'O dear me!' says Humphrey John; Snow lies thick where all night it fell: 'O dear me!' says Emmanuel. TARTARY If I were Lord of Tartary, Myself and me alone, My bed should be of ivory, Of beaten gold my throne; And in my court should peacocks flaunt, And in my forests tigers haunt, And in my pools great fishes slant Their fins athwart the sun. If I were Lord of Tartary, Trumpeters every day To all my meals should summon me, And in my courtyards bray; And in the evenings lamps should shine, Yellow as honey, red as wine, While harp, and flute, and mandoline, Made music sweet and gay. If I were Lord of Tartary, I'd wear a robe of beads, White, and gold, and green they'd be— And small, and thick as seeds; And ere should wane the morning-star, I'd don my robe and scimitar, And zebras seven should draw my car Through Tartary's dark glades. Lord of the fruits of Tartary, Her rivers silver-pale! Lord of the hills of Tartary, Glen, thicket, wood, and dale! Her flashing stars, her scented breeze, Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas, Her bird-delighting citron-trees In every purple vale! THE BUCKLE I had a silver buckle, I sewed it on my shoe, And 'neath a sprig of mistletoe I danced the evening through! I had a bunch of cowslips, I hid 'em in a grot, In case the elves should come by night And me remember not. I had a yellow riband, I tied it in my hair, That, walking in the garden, The birds might see it there. I had a secret laughter, I laughed it near the wall: Only the ivy and the wind May tell of it at all. THE HARE In the black furrow of a field I saw an old witch-hare this night; And she cocked her lissome ear, And she eyed the moon so bright, And she nibbled o' the green; And I whispered 'Whsst! witch-hare,' Away like a ghostie o'er the field She fled, and left the moonlight there. BUNCHES OF GRAPES 'Bunches of grapes,' says Timothy; 'Pomegranates pink,' says Elaine; 'A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me,' says Jane. 'Love-in-a-mist,' says Timothy; 'Primroses pale,' says Elaine; 'A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me,' says Jane. 'Chariots of gold,' says Timothy; 'Silvery wings,' says Elaine; 'A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay For me,' says Jane. JOHN MOULDY I spied John Mouldy in his cellar, Deep down twenty steps of stone; In the dusk he sat a-smiling, Smiling there alone. He read no book, he snuffed no candle; The rats ran in, the rats ran out; And far and near, the drip of water Went whisp'ring about. The dusk was still, with dew a-falling, I saw the Dog-star bleak and grim, I saw a slim brown rat of Norway Creep over him. I spied John Mouldy in his cellar, Deep down twenty steps of stone; In the dusk he sat a-smiling, Smiling there alone. THE FLY How large unto the tiny fly Must little things appear!— A rosebud like a feather bed, Its prickle like a spear; A dewdrop like a looking-glass, A hair like golden wire; The smallest grain of mustard-seed As fierce as coals of fire; A loaf of bread, a lofty hill; A wasp, a cruel leopard; And specks of salt as bright to see As lambkins to a shepherd. SONG O for a moon to light me home! O for a lanthorn green! For those sweet stars the Pleiades, That glitter in the twilight trees; O for a lovelorn taper! O For a lanthorn green! O for a frock of tartan! O for clear, wild, grey eyes! For fingers light as violets, 'Neath branches that the blackbird frets; O for a thistly meadow! O For clear, wild grey eyes! O for a heart like almond boughs! O for sweet thoughts like rain! O for first-love like fields of grey, Shut April-buds at break of day! O for a sleep like music! For still dreams like rain! I SAW THREE WITCHES I saw three witches That bowed down like barley, And took to their brooms 'neath a louring sky, And, mounting a storm-cloud, Aloft on its margin, Stood black in the silver as up they did fly. I saw three witches That mocked the poor sparrows They carried in cages of wicker along, Till a hawk from his eyrie Swooped down like an arrow, And smote on the cages, and ended their song. I saw three witches That sailed in a shallop, All turning their heads with a truculent smile, Till a bank of green osiers Concealed their grim faces, Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile. I saw three witches Asleep in a valley, Their heads in a row, like stones in a flood, Till the moon, creeping upward, Looked white through the valley, And turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud. THE SILVER PENNY 'Sailorman, I'll give to you' My bright silver penny,' If out to sea you'll sail me' And my dear sister Jenny.' 'Get in, young sir, I'll sail ye' And your dear sister Jenny,' But pay she shall her golden locks' Instead of your penny.' They sail away, they sail away,' O fierce the winds blew!' The foam flew in clouds,' And dark the night grew! And all the wild sea-water' Climbed steep into the boat;' Back to the shore again' Sail they will not. Drowned is the sailorman,' Drowned is sweet Jenny,' And drowned in the deep sea' A bright silver penny. THE NIGHT-SWANS 'Tis silence on the enchanted lake, And silence in the air serene, Save for the beating of her heart, The lovely-eyed Evangeline. She sings across the waters clear And dark with trees and stars between, The notes her fairy godmother Taught her, the child Evangeline. As might the unrippled pool reply, Faltering an answer far and sweet, Three swans as white as mountain snow Swim mantling to her feet. And still upon the lake they stay, Their eyes black stars in all their snow, And softly, in the glassy pool, Their feet beat darkly to and fro. She rides upon her little boat, Her swans swim through the starry sheen, Rowing her into Fairyland— The lovely-eyed Evangeline. 'Tis silence on the enchanted lake, And silence in the air serene; Voices shall call in vain again On earth the child Evangeline. 'Evangeline! Evangeline!' Upstairs, downstairs, all in vain. Her room is dim; her flowers faded; She answers not again. THE FAIRIES DANCING I heard along the early hills, Ere yet the lark was risen up, Ere yet the dawn with firelight fills The night-dew of the bramble-cup,— I heard the fairies in a ring Sing as they tripped a lilting round Soft as the moon on wavering wing. The starlight shook as if with sound, As if with echoing, and the stars Prankt their bright eyes with trembling gleams; While red with war the gusty Mars Rained upon earth his ruddy beams. He shone alone, adown the West, While I, behind a hawthorn-bush, Watched on the fairies flaxen-tressed The fires of the morning flush. Till, as a mist, their beauty died, Their singing shrill and fainter grew; And daylight tremulous and wide Flooded the moorland through and through; Till Urdon's copper weathercock Was reared in golden flame afar, And dim from moonlit dreams awoke The towers and groves of Arroar. REVERIE When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to. Each narrow hoof is lifted high Beneath the dark enclust'ring pines, A silver ray within his bit And bridle shines. His eye burns deep, his tail is arched, And streams upon the shadowy air, The daylight sleeks his jetty flanks, His mistress' hair. Her habit flows in darkness down, Upon the stirrup rests her foot, Her brow is lifted, as if earth She heeded not. 'Tis silent in the avenue, The sombre pines are mute of song, The blue is dark, there moves no breeze The boughs among. When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to. THE THREE BEGGARS 'Twas autumn daybreak gold and wild, While past St Ann's grey tower they shuffled, Three beggars spied a fairy-child In crimson mantle muffled. The daybreak lighted up her face All pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed; She looked on them a little space, And shrill as hautboy cried:— 'O three tall footsore men of rags Which walking this gold morn I see, What will ye give me from your bags For fairy kisses three?' The first, that was a reddish man, Out of his bundle takes a crust: 'La, by the tombstones of St Ann, There's fee, if fee ye must!' The second, that was a chesnut man, Out of his bundle draws a bone: 'La, by the belfry of St Ann, And all my breakfast gone!' The third, that was a yellow man, Out of his bundle picks a groat, 'La, by the Angel of St Ann, And I must go without.' That changeling, lean and icy-lipped, Touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo! Beneath her finger taper-tipped The magic all ran through. Instead of crust a peacock pie, Instead of bone sweet venison, Instead of groat a white lilie With seven blooms thereon. And each fair cup was deep with wine: Such was the changeling's charity, The sweet feast was enough for nine, But not too much for three. O toothsome meat in jelly froze! O tender haunch of elfin stag! O rich the odour that arose! O plump with scraps each bag! There, in the daybreak gold and wild, Each merry-hearted beggar man Drank deep unto the fairy child, And blessed the good St Ann. THE DWARF 'Now, Jinnie, my dear, to the dwarf be off, That lives in Barberry Wood, And fetch me some honey, but be sure you don't laugh,— He hates little girls that are rude, are rude, He hates little girls that are rude.' Jane tapped at the door of the house in the wood, And the dwarf looked over the wall, He eyed her so queer, 'twas as much as she could To keep from laughing at all, at all, To keep from laughing at all. His shoes down the passage came clod, clod, clod, And when he opened the door, He croaked so harsh, 'twas as much as she could To keep from laughing the more, the more, To keep from laughing the more. As there, with his bushy red beard, he stood, Pricked out to double its size, He squinted so cross, 'twas as much as she could To keep the tears out of her eyes, her eyes, To keep the tears out of her eyes. He slammed the door, and went clod, clod, clod, But while in the porch she bides, He squealed so fierce, 'twas as much as she could To keep from cracking her sides, her sides, To keep from cracking her sides. He threw a pumpkin over the wall, And melons and apples beside, So thick in the air, that to see 'em all fall, She laughed, and laughed, till she cried, cried, cried, Jane laughed and laughed till she cried. Down fell her teardrops a pit-apat-pat, And red as a rose she grew;— 'Kah! kah!' said the dwarf, 'is it crying you're at? It's the very worst thing you could do, do, do, It's the very worst thing you could do.' He slipped like a monkey up into a tree, He shook her down cherries like rain; 'See now,' says he, cheeping, 'a blackbird I be, Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again-gain-gain, Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again.' Ah me! what a strange, what a gladsome duet From a house i' the deeps of a wood! Such shrill and such harsh voices never met yet A-laughing as loud as they could-could-could, A-laughing as loud as they could. Come Jinnie, come dwarf, cocksparrow, and bee, There's a ring gaudy-green in the dell, Sing, sing, ye sweet cherubs, that flit in the tree; La! who can draw tears from a well-well-well, Who ever drew tears from a well! ALULVAN The sun is clear of bird and cloud, The grass shines windless, grey, and still, In dusky ruin the owl dreams on, The cuckoo echoes on the hill; Yet soft along Alulvan's walks The ghost at noonday stalks. His eyes in shadow of his hat Stare on the ruins of his house; His cloak, up-fasten'd with a brooch, Of faded velvet grey as mouse, Brushes the roses as he goes: Yet wavers not one rose. The wild birds in a cloud fly up From their sweet feeding in the fruit; The droning of the bees and flies Rises gradual as a lute; Is it for fear the birds are flown, And shrills the insect-drone? Thick is the ivy o'er Alulvan, And crisp with summer-heat its turf; Far, far across its empty pastures Alulvan's sands are white with surf: And he himself is grey as sea, Watching beneath an elder-tree. All night the fretful, shrill Banshee Lurks in the chambers' dark festoons, Calling for ever, o'er garden and river, Through magpie changing of the moons: 'Alulvan, O, alas! Alulvan, The doom of lone Alulvan!' THE PEDLAR There came a Pedlar to an evening house; Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down, Wondered what man he was, so curious His black hair dangled on his tattered gown: Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes,— 'What will you buy, sweetheart?—Here's honeycomb, And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies, Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom, To keep in water for to make night sweet: All that you want, sweetheart,—come, taste and eat!' Ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her The clear remembrance of a gentle voice:— 'And O! my child, should ever a flatterer Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be; Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song, Confuse his magic who is all mockery: His sweets are death.' Yet, still, how she doth long But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight, And hide her eyes from the delicious sight! 'What must I pay?' she whispered. 'Pay!' says he, 'Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam, One lock of hair is gold enough for me, For apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!' But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried, 'Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!' And many another woodland tongue beside Rose softly in the silence—'Trust him not!' Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice,