She liked to hear me tell her all; How that day I had climbed the tree, To make the largest fir-cones fall; And how one day I hoped to be A sailor on the deep blue sea-- She loved to hear it all!

Then wondrous things she used to tell, Of the strange dreams that she had known.

I used to love to hear them well, If only for her sweet low tone, Sometimes so sad, although I knew That such things never could be true.

One day she told me such a tale It made me grow all cold and pale, The fearful thing she told!

Of a poor woman mad and wild Who coined the life-blood of her child, And tempted by a fiend, had sold The heart out of her breast for gold.

But, when she saw me frightened seem, She smiled, and said it was a dream.

When I look back and think of her, My very heart-strings seem to stir; How kind, how fair she was, how good I cannot tell you. If I could You, too, would love her. The mere thought Of her great love for me has brought Tears in my eyes: though far away, It seems as it were yesterday.

And just as when I look on high Through the blue silence of the sky, Fresh stars shine out, and more and more, Where I could see so few before; So, the more steadily I gaze Upon those far-off misty days, Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start Before my eyes and in my heart.

I can remember how one day (Talking in silly childish way) I said how happy I should be If I were like her son--as fair, With just such bright blue eyes as he, And such long locks of golden hair.

A strange smile on her pale face broke, And in strange solemn words she spoke: "My own, my darling one--no, no!

I love you, far, far better so.

I would not change the look you bear, Or one wave of your dark brown hair.

The mere glance of your sunny eyes, Deep in my deepest soul I prize Above that baby fair!

Not one of all the Earl's proud line In beauty ever matched with thine; And, 'tis by thy dark locks thou art Bound even faster round my heart, And made more wholly mine!"

And then she paused, and weeping said, "You are like one who now is dead-- Who sleeps in a far-distant grave.

Oh may G.o.d grant that you may be As n.o.ble and as good as he, As gentle and as brave!"

Then in my childish way I cried, "The one you tell me of who died, Was he as n.o.ble as the Earl?"

I see her red lips scornful curl, I feel her hold my hand again So tightly, that I shrink in pain-- I seem to hear her say, "He whom I tell you of, who died, He was so n.o.ble and so gay, So generous and so brave, That the proud Earl by his dear side Would look a craven slave."

She paused; then, with a quivering sigh, She laid her hand upon my brow: "Live like him, darling, and so die.

Remember that he tells you now, True peace, real honour, and content, In cheerful pious toil abide; That gold and splendour are but sent To curse our vanity and pride."

One day some childish fever pain Burnt in my veins and fired my brain.

Moaning, I turned from side to side; And, sobbing in my bed, I cried, Till night in calm and darkness crept Around me, and at last I slept.

When suddenly I woke to see The Lady bending over me.

The drops of cold November rain Were falling from her long, damp hair; Her anxious eyes were dim with pain; Yet she looked wondrous fair.

Arrayed for some great feast she came, With stones that shone and burnt like flame; Wound round her neck, like some bright snake, And set like stars within her hair, They sparkled so, they seemed to make A glory everywhere.

I felt her tears upon my face, Her kisses on my eyes; And a strange thought I could not trace I felt within my heart arise; And, half in feverish pain, I said: "Oh if my mother were not dead!"

And Walter bade me sleep; but she Said, "Is it not the same to thee That I watch by thy bed?"

I answered her, "I love you, too; But it can never be the same; She was no Countess like to you, Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame."

Oh the wild look of fear and dread!

The cry she gave of bitter woe!

I often wonder what I said To make her moan and shudder so.

Through the long night she tended me With such sweet care and charity.

But should weary you to tell All that I know and love so well: Yet one night more stands out alone With a sad sweetness all its own.

The wind blew loud that dreary night: Its wailing voice I well remember: The stars shone out so large and bright Upon the frosty fir-boughs white, That dreary night of cold December.

I saw old Walter silent stand, Watching the soft white flakes of snow With looks I could not understand, Of strange perplexity and woe.

At last he turned and took my hand, And said the Countess just had sent To bid us come; for she would fain See me once more, before she went Away--never to come again.

We came in silence through the wood (Our footfall was the only sound) To where the great white castle stood, With darkness shadowing it around.

Breathless, we trod with cautious care Up the great echoing marble stair; Trembling, by Walter's hand I held, Scared by the splendours I beheld: Now thinking, "Should the Earl appear!"

Now looking up with giddy fear To the dim vaulted roof, that spread Its gloomy arches overhead.

Long corridors we softly past, (My heart was beating loud and fast) And reached the Lady's room at last: A strange faint odour seemed to weigh Upon the dim and darkened air; One shaded lamp, with softened ray, Scarce showed the gloomy splendour there.

The dull red brands were burning low, And yet a fitful gleam of light, Would now and then, with sudden glow, Start forth, then sink again in night.

I gazed around, yet half in fear, Till Walter told me to draw near: And in the strange and flickering light, Towards the Lady's bed I crept; All folded round with snowy white, She lay; (one would have said she slept;) So still the look of that white face, It seemed as it were carved in stone, I paused before I dared to place Within her cold white hand my own.

But, with a smile of sweet surprise, She turned to me her dreamy eyes; And slowly, as if life were pain, She drew me in her arms to lie: She strove to speak, and strove in vain; Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh.

The throbs that seemed to shake her breast, The trembling clasp, so loose and weak, At last grew calmer, and at rest; And then she strove once more to speak: "My G.o.d, I thank thee, that my pain Of day by day and year by year, Has not been suffered all in vain, And I may die while he is near.

I will not fear but that Thy grace Has swept away my sin and woe, And sent this little angel face, In my last hour to tell me so."

(And here her voice grew faint and low,) "My child, where'er thy life may go, To know that thou art brave and true, Will pierce the highest heavens through, And even there my soul shall be More joyful for this thought of thee."

She folded her white hands, and stayed; All cold and silently she lay: I knelt beside the bed, and prayed The prayer she used to make me say.

I said it many times, and then She did not move, but seemed to be In a deep sleep, nor stirred again.

No sound woke in the silent room, Or broke the dim and solemn gloom, Save when the brands that burnt so low, With noisy fitful gleam of light, Would spread around a sudden glow, Then sink in silence and in night.

How long I stood I do not know: At last poor Walter came, and said (So sadly) that we now must go, And whispered, she we loved was dead.

He bade me kiss her face once more, Then led me sobbing to the door.

I scarcely knew what dying meant, Yet a strange grief, before unknown, Weighed on my spirit as we went And left her lying all alone.

We went to the far North once more, To seek the well-remembered home, Where my poor kinsman dwelt before, Whence now he was too old to roam; And there six happy years we past, Happy and peaceful till the last; When poor old Walter died, and he Blessed me and said I now might be A sailor on the deep blue sea.

And so I go; and yet in spite Of all the joys I long to know, Though I look onward with delight, With something of regret I go; And young or old, on land or sea, One guiding memory I shall take-- Of what She prayed that I might be, And what I will be for her sake!

VERSE: A CROWN OF SORROW

A Sorrow, wet with early tears Yet bitter, had been long with me; I wearied of this weight of years, And would be free.

I tore my Sorrow from my heart, I cast it far away in scorn; Right joyful that we two could part-- Yet most forlorn.

I sought, (to take my Sorrow's place,) Over the world for flower or gem-- But she had had an ancient grace Unknown to them.

I took once more with strange delight My slighted Sorrow; proudly now, I wear it, set with stars of light, Upon my brow.

VERSE: THE LESSON OF THE WAR (1855)

The feast is spread through England For rich and poor to-day; Greetings and laughter may be there, But thoughts are far away; Over the stormy ocean, Over the dreary track, Where some are gone, whom England Will never welcome back.

Breathless she waits, and listens For every eastern breeze That bears upon its b.l.o.o.d.y wings News from beyond the seas.

The leafless branches stirring Make many a watcher start; The distant tramp of steed may send A throb from heart to heart.

The rulers of the nation, The poor ones at their gate, With the same eager wonder The same great news await.

The poor man's stay and comfort, The rich man's joy and pride, Upon the bleak Crimean sh.o.r.e Are fighting side by side.

The bullet comes--and either A desolate hearth may see; And G.o.d alone to-night knows where The vacant place may be!

The dread that stirs the peasant Thrills n.o.bles' hearts with fear-- Yet above selfish sorrow Both hold their country dear.

The rich man who reposes In his ancestral shade, The peasant at his ploughshare, The worker at his trade, Each one his all his perilled, Each has the same great stake, Each soul can but have patience, Each heart can only break!

Hushed is all party clamour; One thought in every heart, One dread in every household, Has bid such strife depart.

England has called her children; Long silent--the word came That lit the smouldering ashes Through all the land to flame.

Oh you who toil and suffer, You gladly heard the call; But those you sometimes envy Have they not given their all?

Oh you who rule the nation, Take now the toil-worn hand-- Brothers you are in sorrow, In duty to your land.

Learn but this n.o.ble lesson Ere Peace returns again, And the life-blood of Old England Will not be shed in vain.