Complete Works of Kenneth Grahame

by Kenneth Grahame

  Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

  Round the world for ever and aye?

  When did music come this way?

  Children dear, was it yesterday?

  Children dear, was it yesterday

  (Call yet once) that she went away?

  Once she sate with you and me,

  On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,

  And the youngest sate on her knee.

  She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,

  When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.

  She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea;

  She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray

  In the little grey church on the shore to-day,

  ‘Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me!

  And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.”

  I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves;

  Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.”

  She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

  Children dear, was it yesterday?

  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 grey 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 climb’d 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,

  For the humming street, and the child with its toy!

  For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;

  For the wheel where I spun,

  And the blessèd 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 hoarse wind blows coldly;

  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 starr’d with broom;

  And high rocks throw mildly

  On the blanch’d 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 hill-side —

  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.

  The Legend Beautiful

  “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

  That is what the Vision said.

  In his chamber all alone,

  Kneeling on the floor of stone,

  Prayed the Monk in deep contrition

  For his sins of indecision,

  Prayed for greater self-denial

  In temptation and in trial;

  It was noonday by the dial,

  And the Monk was all alone.

  Suddenly, as if it lighten’d,

  An unwonted splendour brighten’d

  All within him and without him

  In that narrow cell of stone;

  And he saw the Blessed Vision

  Of our Lord, with light Elysian

  Like a vesture wrapped about him,

  Like a garment round him thrown.

  Not as crucified and slain,

  Not in agonies of pain,

  Not with bleeding hands and feet,

  Did the Monk his Master see;

  But as in the village street,

  In the house or harvest-field,

  Halt and lame and blind he healed,

  When he walked in Galilee.

  In an attitude imploring,

  Hands upon his bosom crossed,

  Wondering, worshipping, adoring,

  Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

  Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,

  Who am I, that thus thou deignest

  To reveal thyself to me?

  Who am I, that from the centre

  Of thy glory thou shouldst enter

  This poor cell, my guest to be?

  Then amid his exaltation,

  Loud the convent bell appalling,

  From its belfry calling, calling,

  Rang through court and corridor

  With persistent iteration

  He had never heard before.

  It was now the appointed hour

  When alike in sun or shower,

  Winter’s cold or summer’s heat,

  To the convent portals came

  All the blind and halt and lame,

  All the beggars of the street,

  For their daily dole of food

  Dealt them by the brotherhood;

  And their almoner was he

  Who upon his bended knee,

  Rapt in silent ecstasy

  Of divinest self-surrender,

  Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

  Deep distress and hesitation

  Mingled with his adoration;

  Should he go or should he stay?

  Should he leave the poor to wait

  Hungry at the convent gate,

  Till the Vision passed away?

  Should he slight his radiant guest,

  Slight his visitant celestial,

  For a crowd of ragged, bestial

  Beggars at the convent gate?

  Would the Vision there remain?

  Would the Vision come again?

  Then a voice within his breast

  Whispered, audible and clear,


  As if to the outward ear:

  “Do thy duty; that is best;

  Leave unto thy Lord the rest!”

  Straightway to his feet he started,

  And with longing look intent

  On the Blessed Vision bent,

  Slowly from his cell departed,

  Slowly on his errand went.

  At the gate the poor were waiting,

  Looking through the iron grating,

  With that terror in the eye

  That is only seen in those

  Who amid their wants and woes

  Hear the sound of doors that close,

  And of feet that pass them by;

  Grown familiar with disfavour,

  Grown familiar with the savour

  Of the bread by which men die!

  But to-day, they knew not why,

  Like the gate of Paradise

  Seemed the convent gate to rise,

  Like a sacrament divine

  Seemed to them the bread and wine.

  In his heart the Monk was praying,

  Thinking of the homeless poor,

  What they suffer and endure;

  What we see not, what we see;

  And the inward voice was saying:

  “Whatsoever thing thou doest

  To the least of mine and lowest,

  That thou doest unto me!”

  Unto me! but had the Vision

  Come to him in beggar’s clothing,

  Come a mendicant imploring,

  Would he then have knelt adoring,

  Or have listened with derision,

  And have turned away with loathing?

  Thus his conscience put the question,

  Full of troublesome suggestion,

  As at length, with hurried pace,

  Towards his cell he turned his face,

  And beheld the convent bright

  With a supernatural light,

  Like a luminous cloud expanding

  Over floor and wall and ceiling.

  But he paused with awe-struck feeling

  At the threshold of his door,

  For the Vision still was standing

  As he left it there before,

  When the convent bell appalling,

  From its belfry calling, calling,

  Summoned him to feed the poor.

  Through the long hour intervening

  It had waited his return,

  And he felt his bosom burn,

  Comprehending all the meaning,

  When the Blessed Vision said,

  “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

  H. W. Longfellow.

  Abou Ben Adhem

  Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

  Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

  And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

  Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

  An angel writing in a book of gold: —

  Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

  And to the presence in the room he said,

  “What writest thou?” — The vision rais’d its head,

  And with a look made all of sweet accord,

  Answer’d, “The names of those that love the Lord.”

  “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

  Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

  But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

  Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

  The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

  It came again with a great wakening light,

  And show’d the names whom love of God had blest,

  And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

  Leigh Hunt.

  The Sands of Dee

  “O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  Across the sands of Dee”;

  The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

  And all alone went she.

  The western tide crept up along the sand,

  And o’er and o’er the sand,

  And round and round the sand,

  As far as eye could see.

  The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

  And never home came she.

  “O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair —

  A tress of golden hair,

  A drownèd maiden’s hair,

  Above the nets at sea?”

  Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

  Among the stakes of Dee.

  They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

  The cruel crawling foam,

  The cruel hungry foam,

  To her grave beside the sea.

  But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

  Across the sands of Dee.

  Charles Kingsley.

  Lochinvar

  O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

  Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,

  And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none;

  He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

  So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

  There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

  He stay’d not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,

  He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;

  But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

  The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

  For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

  Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

  So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

  Among bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all:

  Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword

  (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),

  “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

  Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

  “I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: —

  Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide —

  And now I am come, with this lost love of mine

  To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

  There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

  That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

  The bride kiss’d the goblet; the knight took it up,

  He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup;

  She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,

  With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

  He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —

  “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

  So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

  That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

  While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

  And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

  And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “‘Twere better by far

  To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

  One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,

  When they reach’d the hall door and the charger stood near;

  So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

  So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

  “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

  They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

  There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

  Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

  There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

  But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

  So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

  Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

  Sir Walter Scott.

  DAY-DREAMS

  This sectio
n will appeal to girls rather than to boys. And yet day-dreams are no bad things for either sex — just now and again, as a getting away from realities.

  Dreams to Sell

  If there were dreams to sell,

  What would you buy?

  Some cost a passing bell;

  Some a light sigh,

  That shakes from Life’s fresh crown

  Only a rose-leaf down.

  If there were dreams to sell,

  Merry and sad to tell,

  And the crier rang the bell,

  What would you buy?

  A cottage lone and still,

  With bowers nigh,

  Shadowy, my woes to still,

  Until I die.

  Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown

  Fain would I shake me down.

  Were dreams to have at will,

  This would best heal my ill,

  This would I buy.

  T. L. Beddoes.

  The Lost Bower

  In the pleasant orchard closes,

  “God bless all our gains,” say we;

  But “May God bless all our losses,”

  Better suits with our degree. —

  Listen gentle — ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!

  Green the land is where my daily

  Steps in jocund childhood played —

  Dimpled close with hill and valley,

  Dappled very close with shade;

  Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.

  There is one hill I see nearer,

  In my vision of the rest;

  And a little wood seems clearer,

  As it climbeth from the west,

  Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.

  Small the wood is, green with hazels,

  And, completing the ascent,

  Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,

  Thrills in leafy tremblement:

  Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.

  Not a step the wood advances

  O’er the open hill-top’s bound:

  There, in green arrest, the branches

  See their image on the ground:

  You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.

  For you hearken on your right hand,

  How the birds do leap and call

  In the greenwood, out of sight and

  Out of reach and fear of all;

  And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.

  On your left, the sheep are cropping

  The slant grass and daisies pale;

  And five apple-trees stand, dropping

  Separate shadows toward the vale,

  Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”