Children dear, were we long alone?

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; Come!" I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town, Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!

Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."

But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book!

Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.

Come away, children, call no more!

Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!

Down to the depths of the sea!

She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully.

Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, From the humming street, and the child with its toy!

From the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; From the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!"

And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare, And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down!

The hoa.r.s.e wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar.

We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl.

Singing: "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she!

And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hillside-- And then come back down.

Singing: "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she!

She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea."

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

THE PORTRAIT

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.

I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up-stairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

n.o.body with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above.

n.o.body else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone: I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone: The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear-- Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Pen might have kept.

For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said--The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, There stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I dared not look on the face of death: I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow: "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?"...The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead.

"There is a portrait here," he began: "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.

"A month ago," said my friend to me: "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"

He answered,... "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place: We opened it by the tapers' shine: The gems were all unchanged: the face Was--neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least!

The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept.

For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]

THE ROSE AND THORN

She's loveliest of the festal throng In delicate form and Grecian face,-- A beautiful, incarnate song, A marvel of harmonious grace; And yet I know the truth I speak: From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek, A thorn within her heart.

Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams, Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, A something born of mournful dreams Breathes round her sad enchanted air; No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek From out her dimples smiling start; If still the rose be on her cheek, A thorn is in her heart.