Songs of Childhood Part 8

The scent of bramble sweets the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes.

How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face!

Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days.

Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair.

In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees.

THE HORN

Hark! is that a horn I hear, In cloudland winding sweet-- And bell-like clash of bridle-rein, And silver-shod light feet?

Is it the elfin laughter of Fairies riding faint and high, 'Neath the branches of the moon, Straying through the starry sky?

Is it in the globed dew Such sweet melodies may fall?

Wood and valley--all are still, Hushed the shepherd's call.

Hark! is that a horn I hear In cloudland winding sweet?

Or gloomy goblins marching out Their captain Puck to greet?

CAPTAIN LEAN

Out of the East a hurricane Swept down on Captain Lean-- That mariner and gentleman Will ne'er again be seen.

He sailed his s.h.i.+p against the foes Of his own country dear, But now in the trough of the billows An aimless course doth steer.

Powder was violets to his nostril, Sweet the din of the fighting-line, Now he is flotsam on the seas, And his bones are bleached with brine.

The stars move up along the sky, The moon she s.h.i.+nes so bright, And in that solitude the foam Sparkles unearthly white.

This is the tomb of Captain Lean, Would a straiter please his soul?

I trow he sleeps in peace, Howsoever the billows roll!

THE PORTRAIT OF A WARRIOR

His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable s.h.i.+ne.

His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in.

He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land.

Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed nor death dismayed.

HAUNTED

From out the wood I watched them s.h.i.+ne,-- The windows of the haunted house, Now ruddy as enchanted wine, Now dim as flittermouse.

There went a thin voice piping airs Along the grey and crooked walks,-- A garden of thistledown and tares, Bright leaves, and giant stalks.

The twilight rain shone at its gates, Where long-leaved gra.s.s in shadow grew; And black in silence to her mates A voiceless raven flew.

Lichen and moss the lone stones greened, Green paths led lightly to its door, Keen from her lair the spider leaned, And dusk to darkness wore.

Amidst the sedge a whisper ran, The West shut down a heavy eye, And like last tapers, few and wan, The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

THE RAVEN'S TOMB

'Build me my tomb,' the Raven said, 'Within the dark yew-tree, So in the Autumn yewberries Sad lamps may burn for me.

Summon the haunted beetle, From twilight bud and bloom, To drone a gloomy dirge for me At dusk above my tomb.

Beseech ye too the glowworm To bear her cloudy flame, Where the small, flickering bats resort, Whistling in tears my name.

Let the round dew a whisper make, Welling on twig and thorn; And only the grey c.o.c.k at night Call through his silver horn.

And you, dear sisters, don your black For ever and a day, To show how sweet a raven In his tomb is laid away.'

THE CHRISTENING

The bells chime clear, Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down; Come, little Ann, your baby brother dear Lies in his christening-gown.

His G.o.dparents Are all across the fields stepped on before, And wait beneath the crumbling monuments, This side the old church door.

Your mammie dear Leans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm; Watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear, Lest he should come to harm.

All to be blest Full soon in the clear heavenly water, he Sleeps on unwitting of't, his little breast Heaving so tenderly.