by Edith Nesbit
But oh! my red-roofed village — I should die with more content
Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,
And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,
For one who comes no more.
APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ.
(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)
“What be these messengers who come fleet-footed
Between the images that guard our roadway,
Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels —
Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?”
“We come to crave the counsel of Apollo —
The men of Cymé he has counselled often —
Ask of the god an answer to our question,
Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dæ.
“Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,
Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;
The Persian bids us yield — our hearts bid shield him,
What does Apollo bid his servants do?”
The Oracle replied — and straight returning
To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,
Brought to the citizens the Sun-god’s answer:
“Apollo bids you yield to Persia’s will”.
So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,
They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,
But Aristodicus, loved of the city,
Withstood their will, — and thus to them spake he.
“Your messengers have lied — they have made merry
In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;
The god in Branch[)i]dæ had never counselled
That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.
“Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,
Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,
I would not yield the man who trusted Cymé —
What — is the god of baser stuff than I?”
So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,
A second time to Branch[)i]dæ they journeyed,
A second time beneath the purple shadows
Passed through the laurels to Apollo’s fane.
Then Aristodicus spake thus: “To Cymé
Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia —
And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,
Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.
“Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,
The foe is strong, and our defences slender;
Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render
Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates.”
So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:
“Yield ye your suppliant — yield him to the Persians”.
Then Aristodicus bethought him further,
And in this fashion craftily he wrought.
All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies
Of carven work made by man’s love and labour,
In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,
The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.
And all day long their floating wings made beauty
About the temple and the whispering laurels,
And their shrill notes, with the sea’s ceaseless murmur,
Rose in sweet chorus to the great god’s ears.
Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,
Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,
And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.
The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray.
Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,
And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,
And, in the heart of every man beholding,
The anger of the immortal gods made night.
Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple
Came forth a voice more beautiful than music,
More terrible than thunder and wild waters,
And more to be desired than summer sun.
“O thou most impious of all impious mortals,
Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,
And torn away the homes of those who trust me,
Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?”
Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:
“Lord, is it thus thy suppliants are succoured,
What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé
To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?”
Then on the hush of awful expectation
Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals,
Broke the god’s voice, unspeakably melodious
With all the song and sorrow of the world: —
“Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning
Against the gods ye may the sooner perish —
And come no more to question at my temple
Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!”
AT THE PRIVATE VIEW.
Yes, that’s my picture. “Great,” you say?
The crowd says it will make my name —
A name I’d gladly throw away
For a certain unseen star’s pure ray.
I want success I’ve missed — not fame.
You see the mother kneeling there,
The child who cries for bread in vain.
The hard straw bed, the window bare,
The rags, the rat, the broken chair,
The misery and cold and pain.
But what you don’t see — (never will!) —
Is what was there while yet I drew
The lines — which are not drawn so ill,
Put on the colours — worthy still
Of praise from critics such as you.
I used to paint all day, to pour
My soul out as I painted — see
There, to the life, the rotten floor,
The rags, the damp, the broken door,
For those your world will honour me.
But, though if here my models were,
You should not find a line drawn wrong,
Yet there is food for my despair,
But half my picture’s finished fair;
Words without music are not song.
Sometimes I almost caught the tune,
Then changing lights across the sky,
Turned gray morn to red afternoon,
I had to drop my brush too soon,
Lay the transfigured palette by.
That woman did not kneel on there,
When once my back was turned, I know,
She used to leave the broken chair
And show her face and its despair:
Oh — if I could have seen her so!
About her neck child-arms clung close,
Close to her heart the child-heart crept,
My room could tell you — if it chose.
There was a picture, then — God knows!
And I — who might have painted — slept.
Then when birds bade the world prepare
For dawn — ere yet the East grew wan,
She stepped back to the canvas there,
Wearing the look she will not wear
When eyes like yours and mine look on.
And when the mother kneeled once more,
While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,
The child’s white face the one look bore,
Which to my eyes it never wore,
Which I would give my soul to paint.
* * * * *
Hung, as you see — upon the line —
But when I laid the varnish on
And left my two — Fate laughed, malign,
“Farewell to that last hope of thine,
Thy chance of painting them is gone!”
A DIRGE IN GRAY.
Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!
Not a knife. I never use one —
I’ve the right thing on my watch-c
hain
Which some fool or other gave me —
Takes the end off in a second —
Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.
See! The soft wreath upward curling,
Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;
Blue as skies in mild October;
Vague, elusive as delight is.
Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to
When they’re looked at by a dreamer!
Waves that moan — cold, gray, and curling,
On a shore where gray rocks break them;
Skies where gray and blue are blended
As our life blends joy and sorrow.
Angel wings, and smoke of battles,
Lines of beauty, curved perfection!
Half-shut eyes see many marvels;
Gazed at through one’s half-closed lashes
Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny —
Beckoning hands and warning fingers —
But the gray cloud always somehow
Ends by looking like a woman.
Like a woman tall and slender,
Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,
Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.
Through my half-shut eyes I see her —
Through my half-dead life am conscious
Of her pure, perpetual presence.
Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly
Till they make a level landscape,
Toneless, dull, and very rainy —
And an open grave — I saw it.
Through the rain I heard the falling
Of the tears the heart sheds inly.
Oh, I saw it! I remember
Leafless branches, dripping, dripping,
Through a chill not born of Autumn.
To that grave tends all my dreaming —
Oh, I saw it, I remember ...
By that grave all dreaming ended!
THE WOMAN’S WORLD.
Oh! to be alone!
To escape from the work, the play,
The talking, everyday;
To escape from all I have done,
And all that remains to do.
To escape, yes, even from you,
My only love, and be
Alone, and free.
Could I only stand
Between gray moor and gray sky
Where the winds and the plovers cry,
And no man is at hand.
And feel the free wind blow
On my rain-wet face, and know
I am free — not yours — but my own.
Free — and alone!
For the soft fire-light
And the home of your heart, my dear,
They hurt — being always here.
I want to stand up — upright
And to cool my eyes in the air
And to see how my back can bear
Burdens — to try, to know,
To learn, to grow!
I am only you!
I am yours — part of you — your wife!
And I have no other life.
I cannot think, cannot do,
I cannot breathe, cannot see;
There is “us,” but there is not “me” —
And worst, at your kiss, I grow
Contented so.
THE LIGHTHOUSE.
Above the rocks, above the waves
Shines the strong light that warns and saves.
So you, too high for storm or strife,
Light up the shipwreck of my life.
The lighthouse warns the wise, but these
Not only sail the stormy seas;
Towards the light the foolish steer
And, drowning, read its meaning, dear.
And, if the lamp by chance allure
Some foolish ship to death, be sure
The lamp will to itself protest:
“His be the blame! I did my best!”
TO A YOUNG POET.
Tired of work? Then drop away
From the land of cheerful day!
Pen the muse, and drive the pen
If you’d stay with living men.
Fancy fails? Then pluck from those
Gardens where her blossom blows;
Trim the buds and wire them well,
And your bouquet’s sure to sell.
Write, write, write! Produce, produce!
Write for sale, and not for use.
This is a commercial age!
Write! and fill your ledger page.
If your soul should droop and die,
Bury it with undimmed eye.
Never mind what memory says —
Soul’s a thing that never pays!
THE TEMPTATION.
Let me go! I cannot be
All you think me, pure and true:
Those brave jewel-names crown you,
They were trampled down by me.
Horrid ghosts rise up between
You and me; I dare not pass!
What might be is dead; what was
Is its poison, O my Queen!
I should wither up your life,
Blacken, blight its maiden flower;
You would live to curse the hour
When you made yourself my wife.
Yet, your hand held out, your eyes
Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ...
I have lived in hell for years:
Do not show me Paradise.
Lest I answer: “Take me, then!
Take me, save me if you can,
Worse than any other man,
Loving more than other men.”
THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH.
The castle had been held in siege,
While thrice three weeks went past,
And still the foe no vantage gained
And still our men stood fast.
We held the castle for our king
Against our foes and his;
Stout was our heart, as man’s must be
In such brave cause as this.
But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,
And oh! his heart was sore,
For the foe held fast the only son
His dead wife ever bore.
The castle gates were firm and fast,
Strong was the castle wall,
Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart
For the thing that might befal.
He looked out to the pearly east,
Ere day began to break:
“God save my boy till evensong,”
He said, “for Mary’s sake!”
He looked out on the western sky
When the sun sank, blood-red:
“God keep my son till morning light
For His son’s sake,” he said.
And morn and eve, and noon and night,
His heart one prayer did make:
“God keep my boy, my little one,
For his dear dead mother’s sake!”
At last, worn out with bootless siege —
Our walls being tall and stout —
The rebel captain neared our gates
With a flag of truce held out.
“A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,
Ere yet it be too late;
We have a prisoner and would know
What is to be his fate.
“Yield up your castle, or he dies!
’Tis thus the bargain stands:
His body in our hands we hold,
His life is in your hands!”
Sir Hugh looked down across the moat
And, in the sunlight fair,
He saw the child’s blue, frightened eyes
And tangled golden hair.
He saw the little arms held out;
The little voice rang thin:
“O father dear, undo the gates!
O father — let me in!”
Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;
His voice rang strong and true:
“My son — I cannot let thee i
n,
As my heart bids me do;
“If I should open and let thee in,
I let in, with thee, shame:
And that thing never shall be done
By one who bears our name!
“For honour and our king command
And we must needs obey;
So bear thee as a brave man’s son,
As I will do this day.”
The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,
Threw back his bright blond hair:
“Father, I will not be the one
To shame the name we bear.
“And, whatsoever they may do,
Whether I live or die,
I’ll bear me as a brave man’s son,
For that, thank God, am I!”
Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,
He spake full fierce and free:
“Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair
With cowards such as ye be?
“What? I must yield my castle up,
Or else my son be slain?
I trow ye never had to do
Till now with honest men!
“’Tis but by traitors such as you
That such foul deeds be done;
Not to betray his king and cause
Did I beget my son!
“My son was bred to wield the sword
And hew down knaves like you,
Or, at the least, die like a man,
As he this day shall do!
“And, since ye lack a weapon meet
To take so good a life
(For your coward steel would stain his blood),
Here — take his father’s knife!”
With that he flung the long knife down
From off the castle wall,
It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,
Full in the sight of all.
Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,
We held our breath in awe ...
May my tongue wither ere it tell
The damnèd work we saw!
* * * * *
When all was done, a shout went up
From that accursèd crew,
And from the chapel’s silence dim
Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.
“And what may mean this clamour and din?”
“Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!”
“I deemed the foe had entered in,
But God is good!” he said.
We stood upon the topmost tower,
Full in the setting sun;
Shamed silence grew in the traitor’s camp
Now that foul deed was done.
See! on the hills the gleam of steel,
Hark! threatening clarions ring,
See! horse and foot and spear and shield
And the banner of the king!
And in the camp of those without,
