c.u.mBERLAND

The old, old King of c.u.mberland Awoke with bristling beard-- Crouched listening in the darkness To a sound that he had heard.

He leaned upon his foursquare bed, His thumb beneath his chin; Hearkening after that which had stirred The dream that he was in.

The old, old King of c.u.mberland Muttered, "Twas not the sea, Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks, That wakened me.

"Thunder from midmost night it was not; For yonder at the bars Burn to their summer setting her Clear constellated stars."

The old, old King of c.u.mberland Mused yet, "Rats ever did Rove from their holes, and clink my spurs, And gnaw my coverlid.

"Oft hath a little pa.s.sing breeze Along this valance stirred; But in this stagnant calm 'twas not The wind I heard.

"Some keener, stranger, quieter, closer Voice it was me woke...."

And silence, like a billow, drowned The word he spoke.

His chamber walls were cloaked with dark; Shadow did thickly brood, And in the vague, all-listening night A presence stood....

Sudden a gigantic hand he thrust Into his bosom cold, Where now no surging restless beat Its long tale told:

Swept on him then, as there he sate, Terror icy chill; 'Twas silence that had him awoke-- His heart stood still.

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THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD

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Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight is falling softly In the little green orchard; When the grey dew distils And every flower-cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What--what!" and goes her way--s-sh!

I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've sat there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop, or saw; When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ...

Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

THE TRUANTS

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Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly To remember sad things, yet be gay, I would sing a brief song of the world's little children Magic hath stolen away.

The primroses scattered by April, The stars of the wide Milky Way, Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children Magic hath stolen away.

The b.u.t.tercup green of the meadows, The snow of the blossoming may, Lovelier are not than the legions of children Magic hath stolen away.

The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, The albatross lone on the spray, Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children Magic hath stolen away.

In vain: for at hush of the evening When the stars twinkle into the grey, Seems to echo the far-away calling of children Magic hath stolen away.

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THE LITTLE SALAMANDER

TO MARGOT

When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; n.o.body--n.o.body will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night.

VOICES

Who is it calling by the darkened river Where the moss lies smooth and deep, And the dark trees lean unmoving arms, Silent and vague in sleep, And the bright-heeled constellations pa.s.s In splendour through the gloom; Who is it calling o'er the darkened river In music, "Come!"?

Who is it wandering in the summer meadows Where the children stoop and play In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning The guileless hours away?

Who touches their bright hair? who puts A wind-sh.e.l.l to each cheek, Whispering betwixt its breathing silences, "Seek! seek!"?

Who is it watching in the gathering twilight When the curfew bird hath flown On eager wings, from song to silence, To its darkened nest alone?

Who takes for brightening eyes the stars, For locks the still moonbeam, Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully Falling, "Dream!"

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SORCERY

"What voice is that I hear Crying across the pool?"

"It is the voice of Pan you hear, Crying his sorceries shrill and clear, In the twilight dim and cool."

"What song is it he sings, Echoing from afar; While the sweet swallow bends her wings, Filling the air with twitterings, Beneath the brightening star?"