THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN

                            [Illustration]




                           THE FLOWER OF OLD
                                 JAPAN

                            AND OTHER POEMS

                                  BY
                             ALFRED NOYES

                               New York
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                     LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
                                 1907

                         _All rights reserved_




                           COPYRIGHT, 1907,
                       BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

            Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1907.


                             Norwood Press
               J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
                        Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




    ‘O ciel! toute la Chine est par terre en morceaux!
     Ce vase pâle et doux comme un reflet des eaux,
     Couvert d’oiseaux, de fleurs, de fruits, et des mensonges
     De ce vague idéal qui sort du bleu des songes,
     Ce vase unique, étrange, impossible, engourdi,
     Gardant sur lui le clair de lune en plein midi,
     Qui paraissait vivant, où luisait une flamme,
     Qui semblait presque un monstre et semblait presque une âme.’
                                    --VICTOR HUGO (_Le Pot Cassé_).




                                  To
                                 CAROL
                            A Little Maiden
                               of Miyako




          PREFACE


It is a perilous adventure--the writing of a preface, however brief, to
one’s own poems. For one may be tempted to re-state matters that could
find their full elucidation only in the verses themselves. Tennyson once
remarked that poetry is like shot silk, glancing with many colours; and
any attempt to define its meanings is as great a mistake as the attempt
of nineteenth-century materialism to enclose the infinite universe in
its logical nut-shells. Through poetry alone, whether of deeds or words,
thought or colour, passion or marble, is it possible to approach the
Infinite, or as Blake did:--

    ‘To see a world in a grain of sand,
       A heaven in a wild flower;
     Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
       And Eternity in an hour.’

But this revelation is the sole end and object of all true art; and I
hope it may not be thought presumptuous to say here simply
that--whether the attempt be a success or a failure--it was especially
my own aim in the two following poems. If the feet of childhood are set
dancing in them, it was because as children we are best able to enter
into that Kingdom of Dreams which is also the only true, the only real,
Kingdom. The first tale, for instance, must not be taken to have any
real relation to Japan. It belongs--as the _Spectator_ put it--to the
kind of dreamland which an imaginative child might construct out of the
oddities of a willow-pattern plate, and it differs chiefly from
Wonderlands of the Lewis Carrol type in a certain seriousness behind its
fantasy. It is astonishing to me that these things require comment; but
undoubtedly they do. For, on the one hand, the first tale has been
praised enthusiastically as a vivid picture of Japan, and the author has
not only had to correspond with Tokyo on the subject, but was also
invited to meetings of the Japan Society in London! On the other hand,
because the child-voices are allowed to declare that Tusitala lies
asleep in that distant country of dreams, a prosaic English critic once
wrote a lengthy review in an important paper to point out my gross
ignorance of the fact that Stevenson was really buried in Samoa! The
tales are ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’; but--as a kinder critic
has remarked--‘we ourselves are made of that stuff.’ It is perhaps
because these poems are almost light enough for a nonsense-book that I
feel there is something in them more elemental, more essential, more
worthy of serious consideration, than the most ponderous philosophical
poem I could write. They are based on the fundamental and very simple
mystery of the universe--that anything, even a grain of sand, should
exist at all. If we could understand that, we could understand
everything! Set clear of all irrelevancies, that is the simple problem
that has been puzzling all the ages; and it is well sometimes to forget
our accumulated ‘knowledge’ and return to it in all its childish
_naïveté_. It is well to face that inconceivable miracle, that
fundamental impossibility which happens to have been possible, that
contradiction in terms, that fundamental paradox, for which we have at
best only a cruciform symbol, with its arms pointing in opposite
directions and postulating, at once, an infinite God.

The inscription on the “Wisdom Looking-Glass”; the discovery by the
children that the self-limitation of their little wishes was necessary
not only to their own happiness, but to the harmony of the whole world;
the development of the same idea in the passages leading up to the
song--_What does it take to make a rose?_--where a _divine_ act of
loving self-limitation, an eternal self-sacrifice, an everlasting
passion of the Godhead, such as perhaps was shadowed forth on Calvary,
is found to be at the heart of the Universe, and to be--as it were--the
highest aspect of the Paradox aforesaid, the living secret and price of
our very existence; these things are only one twisted strand of the
‘shot silk’ out of which the two tales are woven. It is no new wisdom to
regard these things through the eyes of little children; and I
know--however insignificant they may be to others--these two tales
contain as deep and true things as I, personally, have the power to
express. I hope, therefore, that I may be pardoned, in these hurried
days, for pointing out that the two poems are not to be taken merely as
fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of
childhood back into the kingdom of those dreams which, as we said above,
are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams,
or those fantastic jests--if any care to call them so--for which mankind
has endured so many triumphant martyrdoms that even amidst the rush and
roar of modern materialism they cannot be quite forgotten.

                                                          ALFRED NOYES.




PERSONS OF THE TALE


OURSELVES.
THE TALL THIN MAN.
THE DWARF BEHIND THE TWISTED PEAR-TREE.
CREEPING SIN.
THE MAD MOONSHEE.
THE NAMELESS ONE.

Pirates, Mandarins, Bonzes, Priests, Jugglers, Merchants, Ghastroi,
Weirdrians, etc.




          PRELUDE


    You that have known the wonder zone
      Of islands far away;
    You that have heard the dinky bird
      And roamed in rich Cathay;
    You that have sailed o’er unknown seas
    To woods of Amfalula trees
      Where craggy dragons play:
    Oh, girl or woman, boy or man,
    You’ve plucked the Flower of Old Japan!

    Do you remember the blue stream;
      The bridge of pale bamboo;
    The path that seemed a twisted dream
      Where everything came true;
    The purple cherry-trees; the house
    With jutting eaves below the boughs;
      The mandarins in blue,
    With tiny, tapping, tilted toes,
    And curious curved mustachios?

    _The road to Old Japan!_ you cry,
      _And is it far or near?_
    Some never find it till they die;
      Some find it everywhere;
    The road where restful Time forgets
    His weary thoughts and wild regrets
      And calls the golden year
    Back in a fairy dream to smile
    On young and old a little while.

    Some seek it with a blazing sword,
      And some with old blue plates;
    Some with a miser’s golden hoard;
      Some with a book of dates;
    Some with a box of paints; a few
    Whose loads of truth would ne’er pass through
      The first, white, fairy gates;
    And, oh, how shocked they are to find
    That truths are false when left behind!

    Do you remember all the tales
      That Tusitala told,
    When first we plunged thro’ purple vales
      In quest of buried gold?
    Do you remember how he said
    That if we fell and hurt our head
      Our hearts must still be bold,
    And we must never mind the pain
    But rise up and go on again?

    Do you remember? yes; I know
      You must remember still:
    He left us, not so long ago,
      Carolling with a will,
    Because he knew that he should lie
    Under the comfortable sky
      Upon a lonely hill,
    In Old Japan, when day was done;
    “Dear Robert Louis Stevenson.”

    And there he knew that he should find
      The hills that haunt us now;
    The whaups that cried upon the wind
      His heart remembered how;
    And friends he loved and left, to roam
    Far from the pleasant hearth of home,
      Should touch his dreaming brow;
    Where fishes fly and birds have fins,
    And children teach the mandarins.

    Ah, let us follow, follow far
      Beyond the purple seas;
    Beyond the rosy foaming bar,
      The coral reef, the trees,
    The land of parrots, and the wild
    That rolls before the fearless child
      Its ancient mysteries:
    Onward and onward, if we can,
    To Old Japan--to Old Japan.




          PART I

        EMBARKATION


    When the firelight, red and clear,
      Flutters in the black wet pane,
    It is very good to hear
      Howling winds and trotting rain:
    It is very good indeed,
      When the nights are dark and cold,
    Near the friendly hearth to read
      Tales of ghosts and buried gold.

    So with cosy toes and hands
      We were dreaming, just like you;
    Till we thought of palmy lands
      Coloured like a cockatoo;
    All in drowsy nursery nooks
      Near the clutching fire we sat,
    Searching quaint old story-books
      Piled upon the furry mat.

    Something haunted us that night
      Like a half-remembered name;
    Worn old pages in that light
      Seemed the same, yet not the same:
    Curling in the pleasant heat
      Smoothly as a shell-shaped fan,
    O! they breathed and smelt so sweet
      When we turned to Old Japan!

    Suddenly we thought we heard
     Someone tapping on the wall,
    Tapping, tapping like a bird,
      Till a panel seemed to fall
    Quietly; and a tall thin man
      Stepped into the glimmering room,
    And he held a little fan,
      And he waved it in the gloom.

    Curious reds, and golds, and greens
      Danced before our startled eyes,
    Birds from painted Indian screens,
      Beads, and shells, and dragon-flies;
    Wings, and flowers, and scent, and flame,
      Fans and fish and heliotrope;
    Till the magic air became
      Like a dream kaleidoscope.

    Then he told us of a land
      Far across a fairy sea;
    And he waved his thin white hand
      Like a flower, melodiously;
    While a red and blue macaw
      Perched upon his pointed head,
    And as in a dream, we saw
      All the curious things he said.

    Tucked in tiny palanquins,
      Magically swinging there,
    Flowery-kirtled mandarins
      Floated through the scented air;
    Wandering dogs and prowling cats
      Grinned at fish in painted lakes;
    Cross-legged conjurers on mats
      Fluted low to listening snakes.

    Fat black bonzes on the shore
      Watched where singing, faint and far,
    Boys in long blue garments bore
      Roses in a golden jar.
    While at carven dragon ships
      Floating o’er that silent sea,
    Squat-limbed gods with dreadful lips
      Leered and smiled mysteriously.

    Like an idol, shrined alone,
      Watched by secret oval eyes,
    Where the ruby wishing-stone
      Smouldering in the darkness lies,
    Anyone that wanted things
      Touched the jewel and they came:
    We were wealthier than kings
      If we could but do the same.

    Yes; we knew a hundred ways
      We might use it if we could;
    To be happy all our days
      As an Indian in a wood;
    No more daily lesson task,
      No more sorrow, no more care;
    So we thought that we would ask
      If he’d kindly lead us there.

    Ah! but then he waved his fan,
      And he vanished through the wall;
    Yet as in a dream, we ran
      Tumbling after, one and all;
    Never pausing once to think,
      Panting after him we sped;
    For we saw his robe of pink
      Floating backward as he fled.

    Down a secret passage deep,
      Under roofs of spidery stairs,
    Where the bat-winged nightmares creep,
      And a sheeted phantom glares
    Rushed we; ah! how strange it was
      Where no human watcher stood;
    Till we reached a gate of glass
      Opening on a flowery wood.

    Where the rose-pink robe had flown,
      Borne by swifter feet than ours,
    On to Wonder-Wander town,
      Through the wood of monstrous flowers;
    Mailed in monstrous gold and blue
      Dragon-flies like peacocks fled;
    Butterflies like carpets, too,
      Softly fluttered overhead.

    Down the valley, tip-a-toe,
      Where the broad-limbed giants lie
    Snoring, as when long ago
      Jack on a bean-stalk scaled the sky;
    Slowly, softly towards the town
      Stole we past old dreams again,
    Castles long since battered down,
      Dungeons of forgotten pain.

    Noonday brooded on the wood,
      Evening caught us ere we crept
    Where a twisted pear-tree stood,
      And a dwarf behind it slept;
    Round his scraggy throat he wore,
      Knotted tight, a scarlet scarf;
    Timidly we watched him snore,
      For he seemed a surly dwarf.

    Yet, he looked so very small,
      He could hardly hurt us much;
    We were nearly twice as tall,
      So we woke him with a touch
    Gently, and in tones polite,
      Asked him to direct our path;
    O! his wrinkled eyes grew bright
      Green with ugly gnomish wrath.

          He seemed to choke,
          And gruffly spoke,
    “You’re lost: deny it, if you can!
          You want to know
          The way to go?
    There’s no such place as Old Japan.

          “You want to seek--
          No, no, don’t speak!
    You mean you want to steal a fan.
          You want to see
          The fields of tea?
    They don’t grow tea in Old Japan.

          “In China, well
          Perhaps you’d smell
    The cherry bloom: that’s if you ran
          A million miles
          And jumped the stiles,
    And never dreamed of Old Japan.

          “What, palanquins,
          And mandarins?
    And, what d’you say, a blue divan?
          And what? Hee! hee!
          You’ll never see
    A pig-tailed head in Old Japan.

          “You’d take away
          The ruby, hey?
    I never heard of such a plan!
          Upon my word
          It’s quite absurd
    There’s not a gem in Old Japan!

          “Oh, dear me, no!
          You’d better go
    Straight home again, my little man:
          Ah, well, you’ll see
          But don’t blame me;
    I don’t believe in Old Japan.”

    Then, before we could obey,
      O’er our startled heads he cast,
    Spider-like, a webby grey
      Net that held us prisoned fast;
    How we screamed, he only grinned,
      It was such a lonely place;
    And he said we should be pinned
      In his human beetle-case.

    Out he dragged a monstrous box
      From a cave behind the tree!
    It had four-and-twenty locks,
      But he could not find the key,
    And his face grew very pale
      When a sudden voice began
    Drawing nearer through the vale,
      Singing songs of Old Japan.




          SONG


    _Satin sails in a crimson dawn_
      _Over the silky silver sea;_
    _Purple veils of the dark withdrawn;_
      _Heavens of pearl and porphyry;_
    _Purple and white in the morning light_
      _Over the water the town we knew,_
    _In tiny state, like a willow-plate,_
      _Shone, and behind it the hills were blue._

    _There, we remembered, the shadows pass_
      _All day long like dreams in the night;_
    _There, in the meadows of dim blue grass,_
      _Crimson daisies are ringed with white;_
    _There the roses flutter their petals,_
      _Over the meadows they take their flight,_
    _There the moth that sleepily settles_
      _Turns to a flower in the warm soft light._

    _There when the sunset colours the streets_
      _Everyone buys at wonderful stalls_
    _Toys and chocolates, guns and sweets,_
      _Ivory pistols, and Persian shawls:_
    _Everyone’s pockets are crammed with gold;_
      _Nobody’s heart is worn with care,_
    _Nobody ever grows tired and old,_
      _And nobody calls you “Baby” there._

    _There with a hat like a round white dish_
      _Upside down on each pig-tailed head,_
    _Jugglers offer you snakes and fish,_
      _Dreams and dragons and gingerbread;_
    _Beautiful books with marvellous pictures,_
      _Painted pirates and streaming gore,_
    _And everyone reads, without any strictures,_
      _Tales he remembers for evermore._

    _There when the dim blue daylight lingers_
      _Listening, and the West grows holy,_
    _Singers crouch with their long white fingers_
      _Floating over the zithern slowly:_
    _Paper lamps with a peachy bloom_
      _Burn above on the dim blue bough,_
    _While the zitherns gild the gloom_
      _With curious music! I hear it now!_

    _Now_: and at that mighty word
      Holding out his magic fan,
    Through the waving flowers appeared,
      Suddenly, the tall thin man:
    And we saw the crumpled dwarf
      Trying to hide behind the tree,
    But his knotted scarlet scarf
      Made him very plain to see.

    Like a soft and smoky cloud
      Passed the webby net away;
    While its owner squealing loud
      Down behind the pear-tree lay;
    For the tall thin man came near,
      And his words were dark and gruff,
    And he swung the dwarf in the air
      By his long and scraggy scruff.

    There he kickled whimpering.
      But our rescuer touched the box,
    Open with a sudden spring
      Clashed the four-and-twenty locks;
    Then he crammed the dwarf inside,
      And the locks all clattered tight:
    Four-and-twenty times he tried
      Whether they were fastened right.

    Ah, he led us on our road,
      Showed us Wonder-Wander town;
    Then he fled: behind him flowed
      Once again the rose-pink gown:
    Down the long deserted street,
      All the windows winked like eyes,
    And our little trotting feet
      Echoed to the starry skies.

    Low and long for evermore
      Where the Wonder-Wander sea
    Whispers to the wistful shore
      Purple songs of mystery,
    Down the shadowy quay we came--
      Though it hides behind the hill
    You will find it just the same
      And the seamen singing still.

    There we chose a ship of pearl,
      And her milky silken sail
    Seemed by magic to unfurl,
      Puffed before a fairy gale;
    Shimmering o’er the purple deep,
      Out across the silvery bar,
    Softly as the wings of sleep
      Sailed we towards the morning star.

    Over us the skies were dark,
      Yet we never needed light;
    Softly shone our tiny bark
      Gliding through the solemn night;
    Softly bright our moony gleam,
      Glimmered o’er the glistening waves,
    Like a cold sea-maiden’s dream
      Globed in twilit ocean caves.

    So all night our shallop passed
      Many a haunt of old desire,
    Blurs of savage blossom massed
      Red above a pirate-fire;
    Huts that gloomed and glanced among
      Fruitage dipping in the blue;
    Songs the sirens never sung,
      Shores Ulysses never knew.

    All our fairy rigging shone
      Richly as a rainbow seen
    Where the moonlight floats upon
      Gossamers of gold and green:
    All the tiny spars were bright;
      Beaten gold the bowsprit was;
    But our pilot was the night,
      And our chart a looking-glass.




          PART II

          THE ARRIVAL


    With rosy finger-tips the Dawn
      Drew back the silver veils,
    Till lilac shimmered into lawn
      Above the satin sails;
    And o’er the waters, white and wan,
      In tiny patterned state,
    We saw the streets of Old Japan
      Shine, like a willow plate.

    O, many a milk-white pigeon roams
      The purple cherry crops,
    The mottled miles of pearly domes,
      And blue pagoda tops,
    The river with its golden canes
      And dark piratic dhows,
    To where beyond the twisting vanes
      The burning mountain glows.

    A snow-peak in the silver skies
      Beyond that magic world,
    We saw the great volcano rise
      With incense o’er it curled,
    Whose tiny thread of rose and blue
      Has risen since time began,
    Before the first enchanter knew
      The peak of Old Japan.

    Nobody watched us quietly steer
    The pinnace to the painted pier,
      Except one pig-tailed mandarin,
    Who sat upon a chest of tea
    Pretending not to hear or see!...
      His hands were very long and thin,
    His face was very broad and white;
    And O, it was a fearful sight
      To see him sit alone and grin!

    His grin was very sleek and sly:
    Timidly we passed him by!
      He did not seem at all to care:
    So, thinking we were safely past,
    We ventured to look back at last.
      O, dreadful blank!--_He was not there!_
    He must have hid behind his chest:
    We did not stay to see the rest.

    But, as in reckless haste we ran,
    We came upon the tall thin man,
    Who called to us and waved his fan,
      And offered us his palanquin:
    He said we must not go alone
    To seek the ruby wishing-stone,
      Because the white-faced mandarin
    Would dog our steps for many a mile,
    And sit upon each purple stile
    Before we came to it, and smile
    And smile; his name was Creeping Sin.

    He played with children’s beating hearts,
    And stuck them full of poisoned darts
      And long green thorns that stabbed and stung:
    He’d watch until we tried to speak,
    Then thrust inside his pasty cheek
      His long, white, slimy tongue:
    And smile at everything we said;
    And sometimes pat us on the head,
      And say that we were very young:
    He was a cousin of the man
    Who said that there was no Japan.

    And night and day this Creeping Sin
    Would follow the path of the palanquin;
      Yet if we still were fain to touch
    The ruby, we must have no fear,
    Whatever we might see or hear,
    And the tall thin man would take us there;
      He did not fear that Sly One much,
    Except perhaps on a moonless night,
    Nor even then if the stars were bright.

    So, in the yellow palankeen
    We swung along in state between
    Twinkling domes of gold and green
      Through the rich bazaar,
    Where the cross-legged merchants sat,
    Old and almond-eyed and fat,
    Each upon a gorgeous mat,
      Each in a cymar;
    Each in crimson samite breeches,
    Watching his barbaric riches.

    Cherry blossom breathing sweet
    Whispered o’er the dim blue street
    Where with fierce uncertain feet
      Tawny pirates walk:
    All in belts and baggy blouses,
    Out of dreadful opium houses,
    Out of dens where Death carouses,
      Horribly they stalk;
    Girt with ataghan and dagger,
    Right across the road they swagger.

    And where the cherry orchards blow,
    We saw the maids of Miyako,
    Swaying softly to and fro
      Through the dimness of the dance:
    Like sweet thoughts that shine through dreams
    They glided, wreathing rosy gleams,
    With stately sounds of silken streams,
      And many a slim kohl-lidded glance;
    Then fluttered with tiny rose-bud feet
    To a soft _frou-frou_ and a rhythmic beat
    As the music shimmered, pursuit, retreat,
      “Hands across, retire, advance!”
    And again it changed and the glimmering throng
    Faded into a distant song.




          SONG


    _The maidens of Miyako_
      _Dance in the sunset hours,_
    _Deep in the sunset glow,_
      _Under the cherry flowers._

    _With dreamy hands of pearl_
      _Floating like butterflies,_
    _Dimly the dancers whirl_
      _As the rose light dies;_

    _And their floating gowns, their hair_
      _Upbound with curious pins,_
    _Fade thro’ the darkening air_
      _With the dancing mandarins._

    And then, as we went, the tall thin man
    Explained the manners of Old Japan;
      If you pitied a thing, you pretended to sneer;
    Yet if you were glad you ran to buy
    A captive pigeon and let it fly;
      And, if you were sad, you took a spear
    To wound yourself, for fear your pain
    Should quietly grow less again.

    And, again he said, if we wished to find
    The mystic City that enshrined
      The stone so few on earth had found,
    We must be very brave; it lay
    A hundred haunted leagues away,
      Past many a griffon-guarded ground,
    In depths of dark and curious art,
    Where passion-flowers enfold apart
    The Temple of the Flaming Heart,
      The City of the Secret Wound.

    About the fragrant fall of day
    We saw beside the twisted way
      A blue-domed tea-house, bossed with gold;
    Hungry and thirsty we entered in:
    How should we know what Creeping Sin
      Had breathed in that Emperor’s ear who sold
    His own dumb soul for an evil jewel
    To the earth-gods, blind and ugly and cruel?...
      We drank sweet tea as his tale was told,
    In a garden of blue chrysanthemums,
    While a drowsy swarming of gongs and drums
    Out of the sunset dreamily rolled.

    But, as the murmur nearer drew,
    A fat black bonze, in a robe of blue,
      Suddenly at the gate appeared;
    And close behind, with that evil grin,
    _Was it Creeping Sin, was it Creeping Sin?_
      The bonze looked quietly down and sneered.
    Our guide! Was he sleeping? We could not wake him,
    However we tried to pinch and shake him!

    Nearer, nearer the tumult came,
    Till, as a glare of sound and flame,
      Blind from a terrible furnace door
    Blares, or the mouth of a dragon, blazed
    The seething gateway: deaf and dazed
      With the clanging and the wild uproar
    We stood; while a thousand oval eyes
    Gapped our fear with a sick surmise.

    Then, as the dead sea parted asunder,
    The clamour clove with a sound of thunder
      In two great billows; and all was quiet.
    Gaunt and black was the palankeen
    That came in dreadful state between
      The frozen waves of the wild-eyed riot
    Curling back from the breathless track
    Of the Nameless One who is never seen:
      The close drawn curtains were thick and black;
    But wizen and white was the tall thin man
      As he rose in his sleep:
    His eyes were closed, his lips were wan,
    He crouched like a leopard that dares not leap.

    The bearers halted: the tall thin man,
    Fearfully dreaming, waved his fan,
      With wizard fingers, to and fro;
    While, with a whimper of evil glee,
    The Nameless Emperor’s mad Moonshee
      Stepped in front of us: dark and slow
    Were the words of the doom that he dared not name;
    But, over the ground, as he spoke, there came
    Tiny circles of soft blue flame;
      Like ghosts of flowers they began to glow,
    And flow like a moonlit brook between
    Our feet and the terrible palankeen.

    But the Moonshee wrinkled his long thin eyes,
    And sneered, “Have you stolen the strength of the skies?
      Then pour before us a stream of pearl!
    Give us the pearl and the gold we know,
    And our hearts will be softened and let you go;
      But these are toys for a foolish girl--
    These vanishing blossoms--what are they worth?
    They are not so heavy as dust and earth:
      Pour before us a stream of pearl!”

    Then, with a wild strange laugh, our guide
    Stretched his arms to the West and cried
      Once, and a song came over the sea;
    And all the blossoms of moon-soft fire
    Woke and breathed as a wind-swept lyre,
      And the garden surged into harmony;
    Till it seemed that the soul of the whole world sung,
    And every petal became a tongue
      To tell the thoughts of Eternity.

    But the Moonshee lifted his painted brows
    And stared at the gold on the blue tea-house:
      “Can you clothe your body with dreams?” he sneered;
    “If you taught us the truths that we always know
    Our heart might be softened and let you go:
      Can you tell us the length of a monkey’s beard,
    Or the weight of the gems on the Emperor’s fan,
    Or the number of parrots in Old Japan?”
    And again, with a wild strange laugh, our guide
    Looked at him; and he shrunk aside,
      Shrivelling like a flame-touched leaf;
    For the red-cross blossoms of soft blue fire
    Were growing and fluttering higher and higher,
      Shaking their petals out, sheaf by sheaf,
    Till with disks like shields and stems like towers
    Burned the host of the passion-flowers
... Had the Moonshee flown like a midnight thief?
... Yet a thing like a monkey, shrivelled and black,
    Chattered and danced as they forced him back.

    As the coward chatters for empty pride,
      In the face of a foe that he cannot but fear,
    It chattered and leapt from side to side,
      And its voice rang strangely upon the ear.
    As the cry of a wizard that dares not own
    Another’s brighter and mightier throne;
    As the wrath of a fool that rails aloud
      On the fire that burnt him; the brazen bray
    Clamoured and sang o’er the gaping crowd,
      And flapped like a gabbling goose away.




          THE CRY OF THE MAD MOONSHEE

          _If the blossoms were beans,
          I should know what it means--
    This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure;
          It is evil, too,
          For its colour is blue,
    And the sense of the matter is quite obscure.
          Celestial truth
          Is the food of youth;
    But the music was dark as a moonless night._
          _The facts in the song
          Were all of them wrong,
    And there was not a single sum done right;
    Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd,
    In a voice that was notably deep and loud,
    Repeated, as fast as he was able,
    The whole of the multiplication table._

    So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies,
    And the stars came out in the trembling skies,
      And ever the mystic glory grew
    In the garden of blue chrysanthemums,
    Till there came a rumble of distant drums;
      And the multitude suddenly turned and flew.
... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ...
    And we called for the yellow palankeen,
      And the flowers divided and let us through.
    The black-barred moon was large and low
    When we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe;
      And over our heads the stars were bright.
    But through the forest the path we travelled
    Its phosphorescent aisle unravelled
      In one thin ribbon of dwindling light:
    And twice and thrice on the fainting track
    We paused to listen. The moon grew black,
      But the coolies’ faces glimmered white,
    As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorus
    A laugh that came horribly hopping o’er us
      Like monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night.

    Then the tall thin man as we swung along
    Sang us an old enchanted song
      That lightened our hearts of their fearful load.
    But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet,
    We heard the pad of stealthy feet
      Dogging us down the thin white road;
    And the song grew weary again and harsh,
    And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh,
      And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad;
    And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn:
    _It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!_

    But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowed
    Like a gate at the end of the narrowing road
      Far away; and on either hand,
    As guards of a path to the heart’s desire,
    The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fire
      Stretched away thro’ that unknown land,
    League on league with their dwindling lane
    Down to the large low moon; and again
    There shimmered around us that mystical strain,
      In a tongue that it seemed we could understand.




          SONG


    _Hold by right and rule by fear_
    _Till the slowly broadening sphere_
    _Melting through the skies above_
    _Merge into the sphere of love._

    _Hold by might until you find_
    _Might is powerless o’er the mind:_
    _Hold by Truth until you see,_
    _Though they bow before the wind,_
    _Its towers can mock at liberty._

    _Time, the seneschal, is blind;_
    _Time is blind: and what are we?_
    _Captives of Infinity,_
    _Claiming through Truth’s prison bars_
    _Kinship with the wandering stars._
    O, who could tell the wild weird sights
    We saw in all the days and nights
      We travelled through those forests old.
    We saw the griffons on white cliffs,
      Among fantastic hieroglyphs,
      Guarding enormous heaps of gold:
    We saw the Ghastroi--curious men
    Who dwell, like tigers, in a den,
      And howl whene’er the moon is cold;
    They stripe themselves with red and black
    And ride upon the yellow Yak.

    Their dens are always ankle-deep
    With twisted knives, and in their sleep
      They often cut themselves; they say
    That if you wish to live in peace
    The surest way is not to cease
      Collecting knives; and never a day
    Can pass, unless they buy a few;
    And as their enemies buy them too
      They all avert the impending fray,
    And starve their children and their wives
    To buy the necessary knives.

           *       *       *       *       *

    The forest leapt with shadowy shapes
    As we came to the great black Tower of Apes:
    But we gave them purple figs and grapes
      In alabaster amphoras:
    We gave them curious kinds of fruit
    With betel nuts and orris-root,
      And then they let us pass:
    And when we reached the Tower of Snakes
    We gave them soft white honey-cakes,
      And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:
    And on the hundredth eve we found
    The City of the Secret Wound.

    We saw the mystic blossoms blow
    Round the City, far below;
    Faintly in the sunset glow
    We saw the soft blue glory flow
      O’er many a golden garden gate:
    And o’er the tiny dark green seas
    Of tamarisks and tulip-trees,
    Domes like golden oranges
      Dream aloft elate.

    And clearer, clearer as we went,
    We heard from tower and battlement
    A whisper, like a warning, sent
      From watchers out of sight;
    And clearer, brighter, as we drew
    Close to the walls, we saw the blue
    Flashing of plumes where peacocks flew
      Thro’ zones of pearly light.

    On either side, a fat black bonze
    Guarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,
    Blazoned with blue sea-dragons
      And mouths of yawning flame;
    Down the road of dusty red,
    Though their brown feet ached and bled,
    Our coolies went with joyful tread:
    Like living fans the gates outspread
      And opened as we came.




          PART III

          THE MYSTIC RUBY


    The white moon dawned; the sunset died;
    And stars were trembling when we spied
      The rose-red temple of our dreams:
    Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered cool
    With many an onyx-paven pool,
      Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;
    Where star-shine shimmered through the white
    Tall fountain-shafts of crystal light
      In ever changing rainbow-gleams.

    Priests in flowing yellow robes
    Glided under rosy globes;
      Through the green pomegranate boughs
    Moonbeams poured their coloured rain;
    Roofs of sea-green porcelain
      Jutted o’er the rose-red house;
    Bells were hung beneath its eaves;
    Every wind that stirred the leaves
      Tinkled as tired water does.

    The temple had a low broad base
    Of black bright marble; all its face
      Was marble bright in rosy bloom;
    And where two sea-green pillars rose
    Deep in the flower-soft eave-shadows
      We saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom,
    Wrought in marvellous years of old
    With bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,
      The doors of powdered lacquer loom.

    Quietly then the tall thin man,
    Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,
      Alighted from the palanquin;
    We followed: never painter dreamed
    Of how that dark rich temple gleamed
      With gules of jewelled gloom within;
    And as we wondered near the door
    A priest came o’er the polished floor
      In sandals of soft serpent-skin;
    His mitre shimmered bright and blue
    With pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knew
      Our quest he stroked his broad white chin,
    And looked at us with slanting eyes
    And smiled; then through his deep disguise
    _We knew him! It was Creeping Sin!_

    But cunningly he bowed his head
    Down on his gilded breast and said
      _Come_: and he led us through the dusk
    Of passages whose painted walls
    Gleamed with dark old festivals;
      Till where the gloom grew sweet with musk
    And incense, through a door of amber
    We came into a high-arched chamber.

    There on a throne of jasper sat
    A monstrous idol, black and fat;
      Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:
    Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,
    Trickled down to its ebon feet
      Whereon the blood of goats was shed,
    And smeared around its perfumed knees
    In savage midnight mysteries.

    It wore about its bulging waist
    A belt of dark green bronze enchased
      With big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wrists
    Were clasped about with moony gems
    Gathered from dead kings’ diadems;
      Its throat was ringed with amethysts,
    And in its awful hand it held
    A softly smouldering emerald.

    Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,
    “This is the stone you wished to win!”
      “White Snake,” replied the tall thin man,
    “Show us the Ruby Stone, or I
    Will slay thee with my hands.” The sly
      Long eyelids of the priest began
    To slant aside; and then once more
    He led us through the fragrant door.

    And now along the passage walls
    Were painted hideous animals,
      With hooded eyes and cloven stings:
    In the incense that like shadowy hair
    Streamed over them they seemed to stir
      Their craggy claws and crooked wings.
    At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curl
    Around a deep, soft porch of pearl.

    O, what enchanter wove in dreams
    That chapel wild with shadowy gleams
      And prismy colours of the moon?
    Shrined like a rainbow in a mist
    Of flowers, the fretted amethyst
      Arches rose to a mystic tune;
    And never mortal art inlaid
    Those cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.

    There, in the midst, an idol rose
    White as the silent starlit snows
      On lonely Himalayan heights:
    Over its head the spikenard spilled
    Down to its feet, with myrrh distilled
      In distant, odorous Indian nights:
    It held before its ivory face
    A flaming yellow chrysoprase.

    O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,
    “This is the stone you wished to win.”
      But in his ear the tall thin man
    _Whispered with slow, strange lips_--we knew
    Not what, but Creeping Sin went blue
      With fear; again his eyes began
    To slant aside; then through the porch
    He passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.

    Down a corridor dark as death,
    With beating hearts and bated breath
      We hurried; far away we heard
    A dreadful hissing, fierce as fire
    When rain begins to quench a pyre;
      And where the smoky torch-light flared
    Strange vermin beat their bat-like wings,
    And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.

    And darker, darker, wound the way,
    Beyond all gleams of night and day,
      And still that hideous hissing grew
    Louder and louder on our ears,
    And tortured us with eyeless fears;
      Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,
    And, in the wall, a rough rock cave
    Gaped, like a phosphorescent grave.

    And from the purple mist within
    There came a wild tumultuous din
      Of snakes that reared their heads and
    hissed
    As if a witch’s cauldron boiled;
    All round the door great serpents coiled,
      With eyes of glowing amethyst,
    Whose fierce blue flames began to slide
    Like shooting stars from side to side.

    Ah! with a sickly gasping grin
    And quivering eyelids, Creeping Sin
      Stole to the cave; but, suddenly,
    As through its glimmering mouth he passed,
    The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:
      He wriggled and gave one awful cry,
    Then all at once the cave was cleared;
    The snakes with their victim had disappeared.

    And fearlessly the tall thin man
    Opened his turquoise-tinted fan
      And entered; and the mists grew bright,
    And we saw that the cave was a diamond hall
    Lit with lamps for a festival.
      A myriad globes of coloured light
    Went gliding deep in its massy sides,
    Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tides
      Where a sea-king’s palace enchants the night.

    Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,
    Through each other, and over, and under,
      The lucent orbs of green and gold,
    Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,
    In music through the glimmering deep,
      Over their secret axles rolled,
    And circled by the murmuring spheres
    We saw in a frame of frozen tears
      A mirror that made the blood run cold.

    For, when we came to it, we found
    It imaged everything around
      Except the face that gazed in it;
    And where the mirrored face should be
    A heart-shaped Ruby fierily
      Smouldered; and round the frame was writ,
    _Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,
    I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass._
    _This is the Ruby none can touch:
    Many have loved it overmuch;
      Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,
    Being as images of the flame
    That shall make earth and heaven the same
      When the fire of the end reddens the sky,
    And the world consumes like a burning pall,
      Till where there is nothing, there is all._

    So we looked up at the tall thin man
    And we saw that his face grew sad and wan:
      Tears were glistening in his eyes:
    At last, with a breaking sob, he bent
    His head upon his breast and went
      Swiftly away! With dreadful cries
    We rushed to the softly glimmering door
    And stared at the hideous corridor
      But his robe was gone as a dream that flies:
    Back to the glass in terror we came,
    And stared at the writing round the frame.

    We could not understand one word:
    And suddenly we thought we heard
      The hissing of the snakes again:
    How could we front them all alone?
    O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stone
      And wished we were back on the flowery plain:
    And swifter than thought and swift as fear
    The whole world flashed, and behold we were there.

    Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,
    With its twisted patterns, white and wan,
    Shining like a mottled fan
      Spread by the blue sea, faint and far;
    And far away we heard once more
    A sound of singing on the shore,
    Where boys in blue kimonos bore
      Roses in a golden jar:
    And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,
    The serpent-charmers fluting low,
    And the song of the maidens of Miyako.

    And at our feet unbroken lay
    The glass that had whirled us thither away:
      And in the grass, among the flowers
    We sat and wished all sorts of things:
    O, we were wealthier than kings!
      We ruled the world for several hours!
    And then, it seemed, we knew not why,
    All the daisies began to die.

    We wished them alive again; but soon
    The trees all fled up towards the moon
      Like peacocks through the sunlit air:
    And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;
    And each wish spoiled another wish;
      Till we threw the glass down in despair;
    For, getting whatever you want to get,
    Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.

    At last we thought we’d wish once more
    That all should be as it was before;
      And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could;
    But just as the world grew right again,
    We heard a wanderer out on the plain
      Singing what none of us understood;
    Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweet
    And the meadows were blossoming under his feet.

    And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,
    For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;
      So we kept the glass for a little while:
    And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,
    And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,
      And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;
    And memories danced in a musical throng
    Thro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song.




          SONG


    _We sailed across the silver seas
      And saw the sea-blue bowers,
    We saw the purple cherry trees,
      And all the foreign flowers,
    We travelled in a palanquin
      Beyond the caravan,
    And yet our hearts had never seen
      The Flower of Old Japan._

    _The Flower above all other flowers,
      The Flower that never dies;_
    _Before whose throne the scented hours
      Offer their sacrifice;
    The Flower that here on earth below
      Reveals the heavenly plan;
    But only little children know
      The Flower of Old Japan._

    There, in the dim blue flowery plain
    We wished with the magic glass again
      To go to the Flower of the song’s desire:
    And o’er us the whole of the soft blue sky
    Flashed like fire as the world went by,
      And far beneath us the sea like fire
    Flashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,
    And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.




          PART IV

       THE END OF THE QUEST


    Like the dawn upon a dream
      Slowly through the scented gloom
    Crept once more the ruddy gleam
      O’er the friendly nursery room.
    There, before our waking eyes,
      Large and ghostly, white and dim,
    Dreamed the Flower that never dies,
      Opening wide its rosy rim.

    Spreading like a ghostly fan,
      Petals white as porcelain,
    There the Flower of Old Japan
      Told us we were home again;
    For a soft and curious light
      Suddenly was o’er it shed,
    And we saw it was a white
      English daisy, ringed with red.

    Slowly, as a wavering mist
      Waned the wonder out of sight,
    To a sigh of amethyst,
      To a wraith of scented light.
    Flower and magic glass had gone;
      Near the clutching fire we sat
    Dreaming, dreaming, all alone,
      Each upon a furry mat.

    While the firelight, red and clear,
      Fluttered in the black wet pane,
    It was very good to hear
      Howling winds and trotting rain.
    For we found at last we knew
      More than all our fancy planned,
    All the fairy tales were true,
      And home the heart of fairyland.




          EPILOGUE


    Carol, every violet has
    Heaven for a looking-glass!

    Every little valley lies
    Under many-clouded skies;
    Every little cottage stands
    Girt about with boundless lands;
    Every little glimmering pond
    Claims the mighty shores beyond;
    Shores no seaman ever hailed,
    Seas no ship has ever sailed.

    All the shores when day is done
    Fade into the setting sun,
    So the story tries to teach
    More than can be told in speech.

    Beauty is a fading flower,
    Truth is but a wizard’s tower,
    Where a solemn death-bell tolls,
    And a forest round it rolls.

    We have come by curious ways
    To the Light that holds the days;
    We have sought in haunts of fear
    For that all-enfolding sphere:
    And lo! it was not far, but near.

    We have found, O foolish-fond,
    The shore that has no shore beyond.

    Deep in every heart it lies
    With its untranscended skies;
    For what heaven should bend above
    Hearts that own the heaven of love?

    Carol, Carol, we have come
    Back to heaven, back to home.




          FOREST OF WILD THYME

                   To
               HELEN, ROSIE
                   and
                 BEATRIX




          APOLOGIA


    Critics, you have been so kind,
    I would not have you think me blind
      To all the wisdom that you preach;
    Yet before I strictlier run
      In straiter lines of chiselled speech,
    Give me one more hour, just one
      Hour to hunt the fairy gleam
      That flutters through this childish dream.

    It mocks me as it flies, I know:
    All too soon the gleam will go;
      Yet I love it and shall love
    My dream that brooks no narrower bars
      Than bind the darkening heavens above,
    My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars:
      Then, I’ll follow it no more,
      I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door.




          PRELUDE


    Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,
      Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!
    Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin man
    Must have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fan
      And taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;
    He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can;
      Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.

    No one would believe us if we told them what we know,
      Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin;
    If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,
    And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,
      And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,
    And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,
      They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.

    Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,
      Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!

    He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb,
    Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,
      We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,
    We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,
      And--if we meet a fairy there--we’ll ask for news of Peterkin.

    He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;
      And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;
    From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea,
      And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,
      But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,
    Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,
      And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.

    Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came back
      The captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,
    And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,
    A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty pack
      Crammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,
    And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,--
      The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin.
    Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;
      Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,
    Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,
    For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to say
      Our good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little Peterkin
    Her eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.
      Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.

    God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!
      Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:
    I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the sea
    From the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula tree
      To the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,
    The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!
      Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.




          PART I

        THE SPLENDID SECRET


    Now father stood engaged in talk
    With mother on that narrow walk
    Between the laurels (where we play
    At Red-skins lurking for their prey)
    And the grey old wall of roses
    Where the Persian kitten dozes
    And the sunlight sleeps upon
    Crannies of the crumbling stone
   --So hot it is you scarce can bear
    Your naked hand upon it there,
    Though there luxuriating in heat
    With a slow and gorgeous beat
    White-winged currant-moths display
    Their spots of black and gold all day.--
    Well, since we greatly wished to know
    Whether we too might some day go
    Where little Peterkin had gone
    Without one word and all alone,
    We crept up through the laurels there
    Hoping that we might overhear
    The splendid secret, darkly great,
    Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate;
    And on what high adventure bound
    He left our pleasant garden-ground,
    Whether for old Japan once more
    He voyaged from the dim blue shore,
    Or whether he set out to run
    By candle-light to Babylon.

    We just missed something father said
    About a young prince that was dead,
    A little warrior that had fought
    And failed: how hopes were brought to nought
    He said, and mortals made to bow
      Before the Juggernaut of Death,
    And all the world was darker now,
      For Time’s grey lips and icy breath
    Had blown out all the enchanted lights
    That burned in Love’s Arabian nights;
    And now he could not understand
    Mother’s mystic fairy-land,
    “Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,”
    He murmured, and her face grew pale,
    And then with great soft shining eyes
    She leant to him--she looked so wise--
    And, with her cheek against his cheek,
    We heard her, ah so softly, speak.

    “Husband, there was a happy day,
    Long ago, in love’s young May,
    When with a wild-flower in your hand
      You echoed that dead poet’s cry--
    ‘_Little flower, but if I could understand!_’
      And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,
    And there in that smallest bud lay furled
    The secret and meaning of all the world.”

    He shook his head and then he tried
    To kiss her, but she only cried
    And turned her face away and said,
    “You come between me and my dead!
    His soul is near me, night and day,
    But you would drive it far away;
    And you shall never kiss me now
    Until you lift that brave old brow
    Of faith I know so well; or else
    Refute the tale the skylark tells,
    Tarnish the glory of that May,
    Explain the Smallest Flower away.”
    And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales,
    How terribly their starlight pales
    Before the solemn sun of truth
    That rises o’er the grave of youth!”

    “Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,--
    And once again he shook his head;
    And yet we ne’er could understand
    Why heaven should _not_ be fairy-land,
    A part of heaven at least, and why
    The thought of it made mother cry,
    And why they went away so sad,
      And father still quite unforgiven,
    For what could children be but glad
      To find a fairy-land in heaven?

    And as we talked it o’er we found
    Our brains were really spinning round;
    But Dick, our eldest, late returned
    From school, by all the lore he’d learned
    Declared that we should seek the lost
    Smallest Flower at any cost.
    For, since within its leaves lay furled
    The secret of the whole wide world,
    He thought that we might learn therein
    The whereabouts of Peterkin;
    And, if we found the Flower, we knew
    Father would be forgiven, too;
    And mother’s kiss atone for all
    The quarrel by the rose-hung wall;
    We knew not how, we knew not why,
    But Dick it was who bade us try,
    Dick made it all seem plain and clear,
    And Dick it is who helps us here
    To tell this tale of fairy-land
    In words we scarce can understand.
    For ere another golden hour
      Had passed, our anxious parents found
      We’d left the scented garden-ground
    To seek--the Smallest Flower.




          PART II

        THE FIRST DISCOVERY


    Oh, grown-ups cannot understand
      And grown-ups never will,
    How short’s the way to fairy-land
      Across the purple hill:
    They smile: their smile is very bland,
      Their eyes are wise and chill;
    And yet--at just a child’s command--
      The world’s an Eden still.

    Under the cloudy lilac-tree,
      Out at the garden-gate,
    We stole, a little band of three,
      To tempt our fairy fate.
    There was no human eye to see,
      No voice to bid us wait;
    The gardener had gone home to tea,
      The hour was very late.

    I wonder if you’ve ever dreamed,
      In summer’s noonday sleep,
    Of what the thyme and heather seemed
      To ladybirds that creep
    Like little crimson shimmering gems
    Between the tiny twisted stems
      Of fairy forests deep;
    And what it looks like as they pass
    Through jungles of the golden grass.

    If you could suddenly become
      As small a thing as they,
    A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb,
      A little gauze-winged fay,
    Oh then, as through the mighty shades
    Of wild thyme woods and violet glades
      You groped your forest-way,
    How fraught each fragrant bough would be
    With dark o’erhanging mystery.
    How high the forest aisles would loom,
      What wondrous wings would beat
    Through gloamings loaded with perfume
      In many a rich retreat,
    While trees like purple censers bowed
    And swung beneath a swooning cloud
      Mysteriously sweet,
    Where flowers that haunt no mortal clime
    Burden the Forest of Wild Thyme.

    We’d watched the bats and beetles flit
      Through sunset-coloured air
    The night that we discovered it
      And all the heavens were bare:
    We’d seen the colours melt and pass
    Like silent ghosts across the grass
      To sleep--our hearts knew where;
    And so we rose, and hand in hand
    We sought the gates of fairy-land.

    For Peterkin, oh Peterkin,
      The cry was in our ears,
    A fairy clamour, clear and thin
      From lands beyond the years;
    A wistful note, a dying fall
    As of the fairy bugle-call
      Some dreamful changeling hears,
    And pines within his mortal home
    Once more through fairy-land to roam.
    We left behind the pleasant row
      Of cottage window-panes,
    The village inn’s red-curtained glow,
      The lovers in the lanes;
    And stout of heart and strong of will
    We climbed the purple perfumed hill,
      And hummed the sweet refrains
    Of fairy tunes the tall thin man
    Taught us of old in Old Japan.

    So by the tall wide-barred church-gate
      Through which we all could pass
    We came to where that curious plate,
      That foolish plate of brass,
    Said Peterkin was fast asleep
    Beneath a cold and ugly heap
      Of earth and stones and grass.
    It was a splendid place for play,
    That churchyard, on a summer’s day;

    A splendid place for hide-and-seek
      Between the grey old stones;
    Where even grown-ups used to speak
      In awestruck whispering tones;
    And here and there the grass ran wild
    In jungles for the creeping child,
      And there were elfin zones
    Of twisted flowers and words in rhyme
    And great sweet cushions of wild thyme.

    So in a wild thyme snuggery there
      We stayed awhile to rest;
    A bell was calling folk to prayer:
      One star was in the West:
    The cottage lights grew far away,
    The whole sky seemed to waver and sway
      Above our fragrant nest;
    And from a distant dreamland moon
    Once more we heard that fairy tune:

    Why, mother once had sung it us
      When, ere we went to bed,
    She told the tale of Pyramus,
      How Thisbe found him dead
    And mourned his eyes as green as leeks,
    His cherry nose, his cowslip cheeks.

    That tune would oft around us float
      Since on a golden noon
    We saw the play that Shakespeare wrote
      Of Lion, Wall, and Moon;
    Ah, hark--the ancient fairy theme--
    _Following darkness like a dream!_

    The very song Will Shakespeare sang,
    The music that through Sherwood rang
    And Arden and that forest glade
    Where Hermie and Lysander strayed,
    And Puck cried out with impish glee,
    _Lord, what fools these mortals be_!
    Though the masquerade was mute
    Of Quince and Snout and Snug and Flute,
    And Bottom with his donkey’s head
    Decked with roses, white and red,
    Though the fairies had forsaken
    Sherwood now and faintly shaken
    The forest-scents from off their feet,
    Yet from some divine retreat
    Came the music, sweet and clear,
    To hang upon the raptured ear
    With the free unfettered sway
    Of blossoms in the moon of May.
    Hark! the luscious fluttering
    Of flower-soft words that kiss and cling,
    And part again with sweet farewells,
    And rhyme and chime like fairy-bells.

    “_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows
    Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
    Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
    With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine._”

    Out of the undiscovered land
      So sweetly rang the song,
    We dreamed we wandered, hand in hand,
      The fragrant aisles along,
    Where long ago had gone to dwell
    In some enchanted distant dell
      The outlawed fairy throng
    When out of Sherwood’s wildest glen
    They sank, forsaking mortal men.

    And as we dreamed, the shadowy ground
      Seemed gradually to swell;
    And a strange forest rose around,
      But how--we could not tell--
    Purple against a rose-red sky
    The big boughs brooded silently:
      Far off we heard a bell;
    And, suddenly, a great red light
    Smouldered before our startled sight.

    Then came a cry, a fiercer flash,
      And down between the trees
    We saw great crimson figures crash,
      Wild-eyed monstrosities;
    Great dragon-shapes that breathed a flame
    From roaring nostrils as they came:
      We sank upon our knees;
    And looming o’er us, ten yards high,
    Like battleships they thundered by.

    And then, as down that mighty dell
      We followed, faint with fear,
    We understood the tolling bell
      That called the monsters there;
    For right in front we saw a house
    Woven of wild mysterious boughs
      Bursting out everywhere
    In crimson flames, and with a shout
    The monsters rushed to put it out.

    And, in a flash, the truth was ours;
      And there we knew--we knew--
    The meaning of those trees like flowers,
      Those boughs of rose and blue,
    And from the world we’d left above
    A voice came crooning like a dove
      To prove the dream was true:
    And this--we knew it by the rhyme
    Must be--the Forest of Wild Thyme.

    For out of the mystical rose-red dome
      Of heaven the voice came murmuring down:
    _Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home;
      Your house is on fire and your children are gone._

    We knew, we knew it by the rhyme,
      Though _we_ seemed, after all,
    No tinier, yet the sweet wild thyme
      Towered like a forest tall
    All round us; oh, we knew not how,
    And yet--we knew those monsters now:
      Our dream’s divine recall
    Had dwarfed us, as with magic words;
    The dragons were but ladybirds!

    And all around us as we gazed,
    Half glad, half frightened, all amazed,
    The scented clouds of purple smoke
    In lurid gleams of crimson broke;
    And o’er our heads the huge black trees
    Obscured the sky’s red mysteries;
    While here and there gigantic wings
    Beat o’er us, and great scaly things
    Fold over monstrous leathern fold
    Out of the smouldering copses rolled;
    And eyes like blood-red pits of flame
    From many a forest-cavern came
    To glare across the blazing glade,
    Till, with the sudden thought dismayed,
    We wondered if we e’er should find
    The mortal home we left behind:
    Fear clutched us in a grisly grasp,
    We gave one wild and white-lipped gasp,
    Then turned and ran, with streaming hair,
    Away, away, and anywhere!

    And hurry-skurry, heart and heel and hand, we tore along,
      And still our flying feet kept time and pattered on for Peterkin,
    For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, it made a kind of song
    To prove the road was right although it seemed so dark and wrong,
      As through the desperate woods we plunged and
           ploughed for little Peterkin,
    Where many a hidden jungle-beast made noises like a gong
      That rolled and roared and rumbled as we rushed along to Peterkin.

    Peterkin, Peterkin, if you could only hear
      And answer us; one little word from little lonely Peterkin
    To take and comfort father, he is sitting in his chair
    In the library: he’s listening for your footstep on the stair
      And your patter down the passage, he can only think of Peterkin:
    Come back, come back to father, for to-day he’d let us tear
      His newest book to make a paper-boat for little Peterkin.




          PART III

        THE HIDEOUS HERMIT


    Ah, what wonders round us rose
      When we dared to pause and look,
    Curious things that seemed all toes,
      Goblins from a picture-book;
    Ants like witches, four feet high,
      Waving all their skinny arms,
    Glared at us and wandered by,
      Muttering their ancestral charms.

    Stately forms in green and gold
      Armour strutted through the glades,
    Just as Hamlet’s ghost, we’re told,
      Mooned among the midnight shades;
    Once a sort of devil came
      Scattering broken trees about,
    Winged with leather, eyed with flame,--
      He was but a moth, no doubt.

    Here and there, above us clomb
      Feathery clumps of palm on high:
    Those were ferns, of course, but some
      Really seemed to touch the sky;
    Yes; and down one fragrant glade,
      Listening as we onward stole,
    Half delighted, half afraid,
      _Dong_, we heard the hare-bells toll!

    Something told us what that gleam
      Down the glen was brooding o’er;
    Something told us in a dream
      What the bells were tolling for!
    Something told us there was fear,
      Horror, peril, on our way!
    Was it far or was it near?
      _Near_, we heard the night-wind say.

    _Toll_, the music reeled and pealed
      Through the vast and sombre trees,
    Where a rosy light revealed
      Dimmer, sweeter mysteries;
    And, like petals of the rose,
      Fairy fans in beauty beat,
    Light in light--ah, what were those
      Rhymes we heard the night repeat?

    _Toll_, a dream within a dream,
      Up an aisle of rose and blue,
    Up the music’s perfumed stream
      Came the words, and then we knew,
    Knew that in that distant glen
      Once again the case was tried,
    Hark!--_Who killed Cock Robin, then?_
    And a tiny voice replied,
            “_I_
            _killed_
            _Cock_
            _Robin!_”

    “_I!_ And who are _You_, sir, pray?”
      Growled a voice that froze our marrow:
    “Who!” we heard the murderer say,
      “Lord, sir, I’m the famous Sparrow,
    And this ’ere’s my bow and arrow!
            “_I_
            _killed_
            _Cock_
            _Robin!_”

    Then, with one great indrawn breath,
      Such a sighin’ and a sobbin’
    Rose all round us for the death
      Of poor, poor Cock Robin,
    Oh, we couldn’t bear to wait
    Even to hear the murderer’s fate,
    Which we’d often wished to know
    Sitting in the fireside glow
    And with hot revengeful looks
    Searched for in the nursery-books;
    For the Robin and the Wren
    Are such friends to mortal men,
      Such dear friends to mortal men!

    _Toll_; and through the woods once more
      Stole we, drenched with fragrant dew:
      _Toll_; the hare-bell’s burden bore
      Deeper meanings than we knew:
    Still it told us there was fear,
      Horror, peril on our way!
    Was it far or was it near?
      _Near_, we heard the night-wind say!

    _Near_; and once or twice we saw
      Something like a monstrous eye,
    Something like a hideous claw
      Steal between us and the sky:
    Still we hummed a dauntless tune
      Trying to think such things might be
    Glimpses of the fairy moon
      Hiding in some hairy tree.

    Yet around us as we went
      Through the glades of rose and blue
    Sweetness with the horror blent
      Wonder-wild in scent and hue:
    Here Aladdin’s cavern yawned,
      Jewelled thick with gorgeous dyes;
    There a head of clover dawned
      Like a cloud in eastern skies.

    Hills of topaz, lakes of dew,
      Fairy cliffs of crystal sheen
    Passed we; and the forest’s blue
      Sea of branches tossed between:
    Once we saw a gryphon make
      One soft iris as it passed
    Like the curving meteor’s wake
      O’er the forest, far and fast.

    Winged with purple, breathing flame,
      Crimson-eyed we saw him go,
    Where--ah! could it be the same
      Cockchafer we used to know?--
    Valley-lilies overhead,
      High aloof in clustered spray,
    Far through heaven their splendour spread,
      Glimmering like the Milky Way.

    Mammoths father calls “extinct,”
      Creatures that the cave-men feared,
    Through that forest walked and blinked,
      Through that jungle crawled and leered;
    Beasts no Nimrod ever knew,
      Woolly bears of black and red;
    Crocodiles, we wondered who
      Ever dared to see _them_ fed.

    Were they lizards? If they were,
      They could swallow _us_ with ease;
    But they slumbered quietly there
      In among the mighty trees;
    Red and silver, blue and green,
      Played the moonlight on their scales;
    Golden eyes they had, and lean
      Crookéd legs with cruel nails.

    Yet again, oh, faint and far,
      Came the shadow of a cry,
    Like the calling of a star
      To its brother in the sky;
    Like an echo in a cave
      Where young mermen sound their shells,
    Like the wind across a grave
      Bright with scent of lily-bells.

    Like a fairy hunter’s horn
      Sounding in some purple glen
    Sweet revelly to the morn
      And the fairy quest again:
    Then, all round it surged a song
      We could never understand
    Though it lingered with us long,
      And it seemed so sad and grand.


          SONG

    _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn,
      Summon the day of deliverance in:
    We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn_
      _As we yearn for the home that we never shall win;
    For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin,
      And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!
    Ah! when shall the song of the ransomed begin?
      The world is grown weary with waiting so long._

    _Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,
      There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes;
    Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave
      As the skylark sings to those infinite skies!
    This world is a dream, say the old and the wise,
      And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the true;
    But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,--_
      _Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy
    Blue!_

    _Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows,
      Sound but a note as a little one may;
    And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose,
      And the Healer shall wipe all tears away;
    Little Boy Blue, we are all astray,
      The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn,
    Ah, set the world right, as a little one may;
      Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!_

    Yes; and there between the trees
      Circled with a misty gleam
    Like the light a mourner sees
      Round an angel in a dream;
    Was it he? oh, brave and slim,
      Straight and clad in æry blue,
    Lifting to his lips the dim
      Golden horn? We never knew!

    Never; for a witch’s hair
      Flooded all the moonlit sky,
    And he vanished, then and there,
      In the twinkling of an eye:
    Just as either boyish cheek
      Puffed to set the world aright,
    Ere the golden horn could speak
      Round him flowed the purple night.

           *       *       *       *       *

    At last we came to a round black road
    That tunnelled through the woods and showed,
    Or so we thought, a good clear way
    Back to the upper lands of day;
    Great silken cables overhead
    In many a mighty mesh were spread
    Netting the rounded arch, no doubt
    To keep the weight of leafage out.
    And, as the tunnel narrowed down
    So thick and close the cords had grown
    No leaf could through their meshes stray,
    And the faint moonlight died away;
    Only a strange grey glimmer shone
    To guide our weary footsteps on,
    Until, tired out, we stood before
    The end, a great grey silken door.

    Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with shaggy hair
    Like a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye,
              Two great eyeballs and a beard
              For one ghastly moment peered
    At our faces with a sudden stealthy stare:
              Then the door was opened wide,
              And a hideous hermit cried
    With a shy and soothing smile from out his lair,
    _Won’t you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!_

    And we couldn’t quite remember where we’d heard that phrase before,
    As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door;
    But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky--
    _Won’t you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!_

    Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stood
    With his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood,
    And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching claws,
    And his nose--a horny parrot’s beak, his whiskers and his jaws;
    Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend,
    As he murmured, “I’m so ugly, but I’ve lost my dearest friend!
    I tell you most lymphatic’ly, I’ve yearnings in my soul,”--
    And right along his parrot’s beak we saw the tear-drops roll;
    He’s an _arrant sentimentalist_, we heard a distant sigh,
    _Won’t you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly._

    “If you’d dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you’d seen my works of art,
    If you’d felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart,
    And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can’t forget,
    (For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!)
    Oh, you’d all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak;
    And I’m full of melting moments; and--I--know--the--thing--you--seek!”
    And the haunting echo answered, _Well, I’m sure you ought to try;
    There’s a duty to one’s neighbour, said the spider to the fly._

    So we walked into his parlour
      Though a gleam was in his eye;
    And it _was_ the prettiest parlour
      That ever we did spy!

    But we saw by the uncertain
      Misty light, shot through with gleams
    Of many a silken curtain
      Broidered o’er with dreadful dreams,
    That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breath
    In a silence deep as death.

    There were scarlet gleams and crimson
      In the curious foggy grey,
    Like the blood-red light that swims on
      Old canals at fall of day,
    Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veils
    Round the heavy purple barges’ tawny sails.

    Were those creatures gagged and muffled
      See--there--by that severed head?
    Was it but a breeze that ruffled
      Those dark curtains, splashed with red,
    Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain?
    How we wished that we were safe at home again.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know;
    Won’t you tell us, won’t you put us in the way we want to go?”
    So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tears
    That we couldn’t doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears;
    But he said, “You must be crazy if you come to me for help;
    Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?”
    And again the foolish echo made a far-away reply,
           _Oh, don’t come to me for comfort,
           Pray don’t look to me for comfort,
    Heavens! you mustn’t be so selfish, said the spider to the fly._

    “Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole,
    He was aided by my brother: it’s a story to console
    The convict on the treadmill and the infant with a sum,
    For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom’s come!
    The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of time
    Until my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb:
    He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny thread
    Across a mighty precipice, and light upon his head
    Without a single fracture and without a single pain
    If he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:”
    And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by,
    _Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly._

    Then he moaned, “My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat,
    (Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!)
    For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly sat
    While I told you all my troubles in a confidential chat
    It would give me _such_ an appetite to hear you sympathise,
    And I should sleep the better--see, the tears are in my eyes!
    Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let’s keep ’em all alive,--
    Let’s sit and talk awhile, my dears; we’ll dine, I think, at five.”
    And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style,
    And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.--

    “You remember Miss Muffet
    Who sat on a tuffet
      Partaking of curds and whey;
    Well, _I_ am the spider
    Who sat down beside her
      And frightened Miss Muffet away!
    There was nothing against her!
    An elderly spinster
      Were such a grammatical mate
    For a spider and spinner,
    I swore I would win her,
    I knew I had met with my fate!

    That love was the purest
    And strongest and surest
      I’d felt since my first thread was spun;
    I know I’m a bogey,
    But _she’s_ an old fogey,
      So why in the world did she run?
    When Bruce was in trouble,
    A spider, my double,
      Encouraged him greatly, they say!
    Now, _why_ should the spider
    Who sat down beside her
      Have frightened Miss Muffet away?”

    He seemed to have much more to tell,
    But we could scarce be listening well,
    Although we tried with all our might
    To look attentive and polite;
    For still afar we heard the thin
    Clear fairy-call to Peterkin;
    Clear as a skylark’s mounting song
    It drew our wandering thoughts along.
    Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh,
    Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky,
    In captive dreams that brooked no bars
    It touched the love that moves the stars,
    And with sweet music’s golden tether
    It bound our hearts and heaven together.


          SONG

    _Wake, arise, the lake, the skies_
      _Fade into the faery day;_
    _Come and sing before our king,_
      _Heed not Time, the dotard grey;_
    _Time has given his crown to heaven--Ah,_
      _how long? Awake, away!_

    Then, as the Hermit rambled on
    In one long listless monotone,
    We heard a wild and mournful groan
    Come rumbling down the tunnelled way;
    A voice, an awful mournful bray,
    Singing some old funereal lay;
    Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull,
    Approached as if they trod on wool,
    And as they nearer, nearer drew,
    We saw our Host was listening too!

    His bulging eyes began to glow
      Like great red match-heads rubbed at night,
    And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!”
      To that grey old wicket where, out of sight,
    Blandly rubbing his hands and humming,
    He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.

    He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before,
    As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door;
              And flung it open wide
              And most hospitably cried,
    “Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,--
    They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy,
              Such as you yourself must be!”

    Then the man, for so he seemed,
      (Doubtless one who’d lost his way
    And was dwarfed as we had been!)
      In his ancient suit of black,
    Black upon the verge of green,
      Entered like a ghost that dreamed
    Sadly of some bygone day;
      And he never ceased to sing
    In that awful mournful bray.

    The door closed behind his back;
      He walked round us in a ring,
    And we hoped that he might free us,
      But his tears appeared to blind him,
    For he didn’t seem to see us,
      And the Hermit crept behind him
    Like a cat about to spring.

    And the song he sang was this;
      And his nose looked very grand
    As he sang it, with a bliss
      Which we could not understand;
    For his voice was very sad,
    While his nose was proud and glad.

    _Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!_
    _Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,_
    _Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,_
                _Rain, April, rain._

    _Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;_
    _Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;_
    _A little while, till I no more be sad,_
                _Rain, April, rain._

    And then the spider sprang
      Before we could breathe or speak,
    And one great scream out-rang
      As the terrible horny beak
    Crunched into the Sad Man’s head,
      And the terrible hairy claws
    Clutched him around his middle;
      And he opened his lantern-jaws,
    And he gave one twist, one twiddle,
      One kick, and his sorrow was dead.

    And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey,
      The spider leered at us--“You will do,
    My sweet little dears, for another day;
      But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!”

    And there we stood, in frozen fear,
        Whiter than death,
        With bated breath;
    And lo! as we thought of Peterkin,
    Father and home and Peterkin,
    Once more that music clear and thin,
    Clear as a skylark’s mounting song,
    But nearer now, more sweet, more strong,
    Drew all our wandering thoughts along,
    Until it seemed, a mystic sea
    Of hidden delight and harmony
    Began to ripple and rise all round
    The prison where our hearts lay bound;
    And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rim
    There swelled a distant marching hymn
    Which made the hideous Hermit pause
    And listen with lank down-dropt jaws,
    Till, with great bulging eyes of fear,
    He sought the wicket again to peer
    Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain
    We heard the still approaching strain,
    And, under it, the rhythmic beat
    Of multitudinous marching feet.
    Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang,
    And this was the marching song they sang:--


          SONG

    _A fairy band are we_
      _In fairy-land:_
    _Singing march we, hand in hand;_
      _Singing, singing all day long:_
      _(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)_

      _Singing, singing,_
    _When the merry thrush is swinging_
      _On a springing spray;_
    _Or when the witch that lives in gloomy caves_
    _And creeps by night among the graves_
      _Calls a cloud across the day;_
    _Cease we never our fairy song,_
    _March we ever, along, along,_
    _Down the dale, or up the hill,_
    _Singing, singing still._

    And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his might
      Through the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin;
    And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light,
    And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the night
      In a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin;
    And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight,
      In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.

    And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea,
      The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin;
    And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy glee
    Watched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to tree
      Till the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin!
    Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to see
      Such a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin.

            Then all the glittering crowd
            With a courtly gesture bowed
            Like a rosy jewelled cloud
              Round a flame,
            As the King of Fairy-land,
            Very dignified and grand,
            Stepped forward to demand
              Whence we came.

            He’d a cloak of gold and green
            Such as caterpillars spin,
            For the fairy ways, I ween,
              Are very frugal;
            He’d a bow that he had borne
            Since the crimson Eden morn,
            And a honeysuckle horn
              For his bugle.

    So we told our tale of faëry to the King of Fairy-land,
      And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin;
    And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wand
    And cried, _Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command;_
      _Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin._
    Then he knelt, the King of Faëry knelt; his eyes were great and grand
      As he took our hands and kissed them, saying, _Father
           loves your Peterkin_!

    So out they sprang, on either side,
    A light fantastic fairy guide,
    To lead us to the land unknown
    Where little Peterkin was gone;
    And, as we went with timid pace,
    We saw that every fairy face
    In all that moonlit host was wet
    With tears: we never shall forget
    The mystic hush that seemed to fade
    Away like sound, as down the glade
    We passed beyond their zone of light.
    Then through the forest’s purple night
    We trotted, at a pleasant speed,
    With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed.




          PART IV

      PEASE-BLOSSOM AND MUSTARD-SEED


      Shyly we surveyed our guides
    As through the gloomy woods we went
    In the light that the straggling moonbeams lent:
      We envied them their easy strides!
    Pease-blossom in his crimson cap
      And delicate suit of rose-leaf green,
    His crimson sash and his jewelled dagger,
    Strutted along with an elegant swagger
    Which showed that he didn’t care one rap
      For anything less than a Fairy Queen:
    His eyes were deep like the eyes of a poet,
      Although his crisp and curly hair
    Certainly didn’t seem to show it!
      While Mustard-seed was a devil-may-care
    Epigrammatic and pungent fellow
    Clad in a splendid suit of yellow,
    With emerald stars on his glittering breast
      And eyes that shone with a diamond light:
    They made you feel sure it would always be best
      To tell him the truth: he was not perhaps _quite_
    So polite as Pease-blossom, but then who could be
    _Quite_ such a debonair fairy as he?

    We never could tell you one-half that we heard
    And saw on that journey. For instance, a bird
    Ten times as big as an elephant stood
    By the side of a nest like a great thick wood:
    The clouds in glimmering wreaths were spread
    Behind its vast and shadowy head
    Which rolled at us trembling below. (Its eyes
    Were like great black moons in those pearl-pale skies.)
    And we feared he might take us, perhaps, for a worm.

    But he ruffled his breast with the sound of a storm,
    And snuggled his head with a careless disdain
    Under his huge hunched wing again;
    And Mustard-seed said, as we stole thro’ the dark,
    There was nothing to fear: it was only a Lark!

    And so he cheered the way along
      With many a neat little epigram,
      While dear Pease-blossom before him swam
    On a billow of lovely moonlit song,
    Telling us why they had left their home
    In Sherwood, and had hither come
    To dwell in this magical scented clime,
    This dim old Forest of sweet Wild Thyme.

    “Men toil,” he said, “from morn till night
    With bleeding hands and blinded sight
    For gold, more gold! They have betrayed
    The trust that in their souls was laid;
    Their fairy birthright they have sold
    For little disks of mortal gold;
    And now they cannot even see
    The gold upon the greenwood tree,
    The wealth of coloured lights that pass
    In soft gradations through the grass,
    The riches of the love untold
    That wakes the day from grey to gold;
    And howsoe’er the moonlight weaves
    Magic webs among the leaves
    Englishmen care little now
    For elves beneath the hawthorn bough:
    Nor if Robin should return
    Dare they of an outlaw learn;
    For them the Smallest Flower is furled,
    Mute is the music of the world;
    And unbelief has driven away
    Beauty from the blossomed spray.”

    Then Mustard-seed with diamond eyes
    Taught us to be laughter-wise,
    And he showed us how that Time
    Is much less powerful than a rhyme;
    And that Space is but a dream;
    “For look,” he said, with eyes agleam,
    “Now you are become so small
    You think the Thyme a forest tall;
    But underneath your feet you see
    A world of wilder mystery
    Where, if you were smaller yet,
    You would just as soon forget
    This forest, which you’d leave above
    As you have left the home you love!
    For, since the Thyme you used to know
    Seems a forest here below,
    What if you should sink again
    And find there stretched a mighty plain
    Between each grass-blade and the next?
    You’d think till you were quite perplexed!
    Especially if all the flowers
    That lit the sweet Thyme-forest bowers
    Were in that wild transcendent change
    Turned to Temples, great and strange,
    With many a pillared portal high
    And domes that swelled against the sky!
    How foolish, then, you will agree,
    Are those who think that all must see
    The world alike, or those who scorn
    Another who, perchance, was born
    Where--in a different dream from theirs--
    What they call sins to him are prayers!
    We cannot judge; we cannot know;
    All things mingle; all things flow;
    There’s only one thing constant here--
    Love--that untranscended sphere:
    Love, that while all ages run
    Holds the wheeling worlds in one;
    Love that, as your sages tell,
    Soars to heaven and sinks to hell.”

    Even as he spoke, we seemed to grow
    Smaller, the Thyme trees seemed to go
    Farther away from us: new dreams
    Flashed out on us with mystic gleams
    Of mighty Temple-domes: deep awe
    Held us all breathless as we saw
    A carven portal glimmering out
    Between new flowers that put to rout
    Our other fancies: in sweet fear
    We tiptoed past, and seemed to hear
    A sound of singing from within
    That told our souls of Peterkin:
    Our thoughts of _him_ were still the same
    Howe’er the shadows went and came!
    So, on we wandered, hand in hand,
    And all the world was fairy-land.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And as we went we seemed to hear
      Surging up from distant dells
    A solemn music, soft and clear
      As if a field of lily-bells
    Were tolling all together, sweet
      But sad and low and keeping time
    To multitudinous marching feet
    With a slow funereal beat
      And a deep harmonious chime
    That told us by its dark refrain
    The reason fairies suffered pain.




          SONG


      Bear her along
      Keep ye your song
    Tender and sweet and low:
      Fairies must die!
      Ask ye not why
    Ye that have hurt her so.
    _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!
    Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and
           the dust of its dreams on our grief._

      Men upon earth
      Bring us to birth
    Gently at even and morn!
      When as brother and brother
     They greet one another
    And smile--then a fairy is born!
      But at each cruel word
      Upon earth that is heard,
    Each deed of unkindness or hate,
      Some fairy must pass
      From the games in the grass
    And steal thro’ the terrible Gate.
    _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!
    Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the
           dust of its dreams on our grief._

      If ye knew, if ye knew
      All the wrong that ye do
    By the thought that ye harbour alone,
      How the face of some fairy
      Grows wistful and weary
    And the heart in her cold as a stone!
      Ah, she was born
      Blithe as the morn
    Under an April sky,
      Born of the greeting
      Of two lovers meeting!
    They parted, and so she must die!
    _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!_
    _Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and
           the dust of its dreams on our grief._

      Cradled in blisses,
      Yea, born of your kisses,
    Oh, ye lovers that met by the moon,
      She would not have cried
      In the darkness and died
    If ye had not forgotten so soon!

      Cruel mortals, they say,
      Live for ever and aye,
    And they pray in the dark on their knees!
      But the flowers that are fled
      And the loves that are dead,
    What heaven takes pity on these?

    _Bear her along--singing your song--tender and sweet and low!_
    _Fairies must die! Ask ye not why--ye that have hurt her so._

      Passing away--
      Flower from the spray!
    Colour and light from the leaf!
      Soon, soon will the year
      Shed its bloom on her bier
    And the dust of its dreams on our grief!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Then we came through a glittering crystal grot
      By a path like a pale moonbeam,
    And a broad blue bridge of Forget-me-not
      Over a shimmering stream,
    To where, through the deep blue dusk, a gleam
      Rose like the soul of the setting sun;
    A sunset breaking through the earth,
      A crimson sea of the poppies of dream,
    Deep as the sleep that gave them birth
      In the night where all earthly dreams are done.

    And then, like a pearl-pale porch of the moon,
      Faint and sweet as a starlit shrine,
            Over the gloom
            Of the crimson bloom
      We saw the Gates of Ivory shine;
    And, lulled and lured by the lullaby tune
      Of the cradling airs that drowsily creep
    From blossom to blossom, and lazily croon
    Through the heart of the midnight’s mystic noon,
      We came to the Gates of the City of Sleep.

    Faint and sweet as a lily’s repose
      On the broad black breast of a midnight lake,
        The City delighted the cradling night:
    Like a straggling palace of cloud it rose;
      The towers were crowned with a crystal light
        Like the starry crown of a white snowflake
    As they pierced in a wild white pinnacled crowd,
    Through the dusky wreaths of enchanted cloud
      That swirled all round like a witch’s hair.

    And we heard, as the sound of a great sea sighing,
      The sigh of the sleepless world of care;
    And we saw strange shadowy figures flying
    Up to the Ivory Gates and beating
      With pale hands, long and famished and thin;
    Like blinded birds we saw them dash
      Against the cruelly gleaming wall:
      We heard them wearily moan and call
    With sharp starved lips for ever entreating
      The pale doorkeeper to let them in.
    And still, as they beat, again and again,
      We saw on the moon-pale lintels a splash
    Of crimson blood like a poppy-stain
    Or a wild red rose from the gardens of pain
      That sigh all night like a ghostly sea
      From the City of Sleep to Gethsemane.

    And lo, as we neared that mighty crowd
    An old blind man came, crying aloud
    To greet us, as once the blind man cried
    In the Bible picture--you know we tried
    To paint that print, with its Eastern sun;
    But the reds and the yellows _would_ mix and run,
    And the blue of the sky made a horrible mess
    Right over the edge of the Lord’s white dress.

    And the old blind man, just as though he had eyes,
    Came straight to meet us; and all the cries
    Of the crowd were hushed; and a strange sweet calm
    Stole through the air like a breath of the balm
    That was wafted abroad from the Forest of Thyme
    (For it rolled all round that curious clime
    With its magical clouds of perfumed trees.)
    And the blind man cried, “Our help is at hand,
    Oh, brothers, remember the old command,
    Remember the frankincense and myrrh,
    Make way, make way for those little ones there;
    Make way, make way, I have seen them afar
    Under a great white Eastern star;
    For I am the mad blind man who sees!”
    Then he whispered, softly--_Of such as these_;
    And through the hush of the cloven crowd
    We passed to the gates of the City, and there
    Our fairy heralds cried aloud--
    _Open your Gates; don’t stand and stare;
    These are the Children for whom our King
    Made all the star-worlds dance in a ring!_

    And lo, like a sorrow that melts from the heart
    In tears, the slow gates melted apart;
    And into the City we passed like a dream;
    And then, in one splendid marching stream
    The whole of that host came following through.
    We were only children, just like you;
    Children, ah, but we felt so grand
    As we led them--although we could understand
    Nothing at all of the wonderful song
    That rose all round as we marched along.




          SONG


    _You that have seen how the world and its glory_
      _Change and grow old like the love of a friend;_
    _You that have come to the end of the story,_
      _You that were tired ere you came to the end;_
    _You that are weary of laughter and sorrow,_
      _Pain and pleasure, labour and sin,_
    _Sick of the midnight and dreading the morrow,_
      _Ah, come in; come in._

    _You that are bearing the load of the ages;_
      _You that have loved overmuch and too late;_
    _You that confute all the saws of the sages;_
      _You that served only because you must wait,_
    _Knowing your work was a wasted endeavour;_
      _You that have lost and yet triumphed therein,_
    _Add loss to your losses and triumph for ever;_
      _Ah, come in; come in._

    And we knew as we went up that twisted street,
      With its violet shadows and pearl-pale walls,
    We were coming to Something strange and sweet,
      For the dim air echoed with elfin calls;
    And, far away, in the heart of the City,
      A murmur of laughter and revelry rose,--
    A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity,
      And sweet as a swan-song’s golden close.

    And then, once more, as we marched along,
    There surged all round us that wonderful song;
    And it swung to the tramp of our marching feet;
    But ah, it was tenderer now and so sweet
    That it made our eyes grow wet and blind,
    And the whole wide-world seem mother-kind,
    Folding us round with a gentle embrace,
    And pressing our souls to her soft sweet face.




          SONG


    _Dreams; dreams; ah, the memory blinding us,
      Blinding our eyes to the way that we go;
    Till the new sorrow come, once more reminding us
      Blindly of kind hearts, ours long ago:
    Mother-mine, whisper we, yours was the love for me!
      Still, though our paths lie lone and apart,
    Yours is the true love, shining above for me,
      Yours are the kind eyes, hurting my heart._

    _Dreams; dreams; ah, how shall we sing of them,_
      _Dreams that we loved with our head on her breast:_
    _Dreams; dreams; and the cradle-sweet swing of them;_
      _Ay, for her voice was the sound we loved best:_
    _Can we remember at all or, forgetting it,_
      _Can we recall for a moment the gleam_
    _Of our childhood’s delight and the wonder begetting it,_
      _Wonder awakened in dreams of a dream?_

    And, once again, from the heart of the City
      A murmur of tenderer laughter rose,
    A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity,
      And sweet as a swan-song’s golden close;
    And it seemed as if some wonderful Fair
      Were charming the night of the City of Dreams,
    For, over the mystical din out there,
      The clouds were litten with flickering gleams,
    And a roseate light like the day’s first flush
      Quivered and beat on the towers above,
    And we heard through the curious crooning hush
      An elfin song that we used to love.
    _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ..._
      And the soft wind blew it the other way;
    And all that we heard was--_Cow’s in the corn_;
      But we never heard anything half so gay!

    And ever we seemed to be drawing nearer
      That mystical roseate smoke-wreathed glare,
    And the curious music grew louder and clearer,
      Till _Mustard-Seed_ said, “We are lucky, you see,
      We’ve arrived at a time of festivity!”
    And so to the end of the street we came,
      And turned a corner, and--there we were,
    In a place that glowed like the dawn of day,
      A crowded clamouring City square
    Like the cloudy heart of an opal, aflame
      With the lights of a great Dream-Fair:
    Thousands of children were gathered there,
      Thousands of old men, weary and grey,
    And the shouts of the showmen filled the air--
      This way! This way! This way!

    And _See-Saw_; _Margery Daw_; we heard a rollicking shout,
    As the swing-boats hurtled over our heads to the tune of the roundabout;
    And _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn_, we heard the showmen cry,
    And _Dickory Dock, I’m as good as a clock_, we heard the swings reply.

    This way, this way to your Heart’s Desire;
      Come, cast your burdens down;
    And the pauper shall mount his throne in the skies,
      And the king be rid of his crown:
    And souls that were dead shall be fed with fire
      From the fount of their ancient pain,
    And your lost love come with the light in her eyes
      Back to your heart again.

    Ah, here be sure she shall never prove
      Less kind than her eyes were bright;
    This way, this way to your old lost love,
      You shall kiss her lips to-night;
    This way for the smile of a dead man’s face
      And the grip of a brother’s hand,
    This way to your childhood’s heart of grace
      And your home in Fairy-land.

    _Dickory Dock, I’m as good as a clock_, d’you hear my swivels chime?
    To and fro as I come and go, I keep eternal time.
    O, little Bo-peep, if you’ve lost your sheep
           and don’t know where to find ’em,
    Leave ’em alone and they’ll come home, and carry their tails behind ’em.

    And _See-Saw_; _Margery Daw_; there came the chorussing shout,
    As the swing-boats answered the roaring tune of the rollicking roundabout;
    Dickory, dickory, dickory, dock, d’you hear my swivels chime?
    Swing; swing; you’re as good as a king if you keep eternal time.

    Then we saw that the tunes of the world were one;
    And the metre that guided the rhythmic sun
    Was at one, like the ebb and the flow of the sea,
    With the tunes that we learned at our mother’s knee;
    The beat of the horse-hoofs that carried us down
    To see the fine Lady of Banbury Town;
    And so, by the rhymes that we knew, we could tell
    Without knowing the others--that all was well.

    And then, our brains began to spin;
    For it seemed as if that mighty din
    Were no less than the cries of the poets and sages
    Of all the nations in all the ages;
    And, if they could only beat out the whole
    Of their music together, the guerdon and goal
    Of the world would be reached with one mighty shout,
    And the dark dread secret of Time be out;
    And nearer, nearer they seemed to climb,
      And madder and merrier rose the song,
    And the swings and the see-saws marked the time;
      For this was the maddest and merriest throng
    That ever was met on a holy-day
    To dance the dust of the world away;
    And madder and merrier, round and round
    The whirligigs whirled to the whirling sound,
    Till it seemed that the mad song burst its bars
    And mixed with the song of the whirling stars,
    The song that the rhythmic Time-Tides tell
    To seraphs in Heaven and devils in Hell;
    Ay; Heaven and Hell in accordant chime
    With the universal rhythm and rhyme
    Were nearing the secret of Space and Time;
    The song of that ultimate mystery
    Which only the mad blind men who see,
    Led by the laugh of a little child,
    Can utter; Ay, wilder and yet more wild
    It maddened, till now--full song--it was out!
    It roared from the starry roundabout--

    _A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem,_
      _A child was born in Bethlehem; ah, hear my fairy fable;_
    _For I have seen the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,_
      _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._
    _The wise men came to greet him with their gifts
           of myrrh and frankincense,--_
      _Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;_
    _And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,_
      _My childhood’s heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._

    _A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem;_
      _The wise men came to welcome him: a star stood o’er the gable;_
    _And there they saw the Kings of Kings, no longer
           thronged with angel wings,_
      _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._

    And creeping through the music once again the fairy cry
      Came freezing o’er the snowy towers to lead us on to Peterkin:
    Once more the fairy bugles blew from lands beyond the sky,
    And we all groped out together, dazed and blind, we knew not why;
      Out through the City’s farther gates we went to look for Peterkin;
    Out, out into the dark Unknown, and heard the clamour die
      Far, far away behind us as we trotted on to Peterkin.

    Then once more along the rare
      Forest-paths we groped our way:
    Here the glow-worm’s league-long glare
      Turned the Wild Thyme night to day:
    There we passed a sort of whale
      Sixty feet in length or more,
    But we knew it was a snail
      Even when we heard it snore.
    Often through the glamorous gloom
      Almost on the top of us
    We beheld a beetle loom
      Like a hippopotamus;
    Once or twice a spotted toad
      Like a mountain wobbled by
    With a rolling moon that glowed
      Through the skin-fringe of its eye.

    Once a caterpillar bowed
      Down a leaf of Ygdrasil
    Like a sunset-coloured cloud
      Sleeping on a quiet hill:
    Once we came upon a moth
      Fast asleep with outspread wings,
    Like a mighty tissued cloth
      Woven for the feet of kings.

    There above the woods in state
      Many a temple dome that glows
    Delicately like a great
      Rainbow-coloured bubble rose:
    Though they were but flowers on earth,
      Oh, we dared not enter in;
    For in that divine re-birth
      Less than awe were more than sin!

    Yet their mystic anthems came
      Sweetly to our listening ears;
    And their burden was the same--
      “No more sorrow, no more tears!
    Whither Peterkin has gone
      You, assuredly, shall go:
    When your wanderings are done,
      All he knows you, too, shall know!”

    So we thought we’d onward roam
      Till earth’s Smallest Flower appeared,
    With a less tremendous dome
      Less divinely to be feared:
    Then, perchance, if we should dare
      Timidly to enter in,
    Might some kindly doorkeeper
      Give us news of Peterkin.

    At last we saw a crimson porch
    Far away, like a dull red torch
    Burning in the purple gloom;
    And a great ocean of perfume
    Rolled round us as we drew anear,
    And then we strangely seemed to hear
    The shadow of a mighty psalm,
      A sound as if a golden sea
    Of music swung in utter calm
      Against the shores of Eternity;
    And then we saw the mighty dome
      Of some mysterious Temple tower
    On high; and knew that we had come,
      At last, to that sweet House of Grace
      Which wise men find in every place--
      The Temple of the Smallest Flower.

    And there--alas--our fairy friends
    Whispered, “Here our kingdom ends:
      You must enter in alone,
    But your souls will surely show
      Whither Peterkin is gone
    And the road that you must go:
      We, poor fairies, have no souls!
      Hark, the warning hare-bell tolls;”
    So “Good-bye, good-bye,” they said,
    “Dear little seekers-for-the-dead.”
    They vanished; ah, but as they went
    We heard their voices softly blent
    In some mysterious fairy song
    That seemed to make us wise and strong;
    For it was like the holy calm
    That fills the bosomed rose with balm,
    Or blessings that the twilight breathes
    Where the honeysuckle wreathes
    Between young lovers and the sky
    As on banks of flowers they lie;
    And with wings of rose and green
    Laughing fairies pass unseen,
    Singing their sweet lullaby,--
        Lulla-lulla-lullaby!
        Lulla-lulla-lullaby!
          Ah, good night, with lullaby!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Only a flower? Those carven walls,
    Those cornices and coronals,
    The splendid crimson porch, the thin
    Strange sounds of singing from within--
    Through the scented arch we stept,
      Pushed back the soft petallic door,
    And down the velvet aisles we crept;
      Was it a Flower--no more?

    For one of the voices that we heard,
    A child’s voice, clear as the voice of a bird,
    Was it not?--nay, it could not be!
    And a woman’s voice that tenderly
    Answered him in fond refrain,
    And pierced our hearts with sweet sweet pain,
    As if dear Mary-mother hung
    Above some little child, and sung
    Between the waves of that golden sea
    The cradle-songs of Eternity;
    And, while in her deep smile he basked,
    Answered whatsoe’er he asked.

    _What is there hid in the heart of a rose,_
              _Mother-mine?_
    _Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?_
    _A man that died on a lonely hill_
    _May tell you, perhaps, but none other will,_
              _Little child._

    _What does it take to make a rose,_
              _Mother-mine?_
    _The God that died to make it knows_
    _It takes the world’s eternal wars,_
    _It takes the moon and all the stars,_
    _It takes the might of heaven and hell_
    _And the everlasting Love as well,_
              _Little child._

    But there, in one great shrine apart
    Within the Temple’s holiest heart,
    We came upon a blinding light,
      Suddenly, and a burning throne
    Of pinnacled glory, wild and white;
      We could not see Who reigned thereon;
    For, all at once, as a wood-bird sings,
    The aisles were full of great white wings
    Row above mystic burning row;
    And through the splendour and the glow
    We saw four angels, great and sweet,
    With outspread wings and folded feet,
    Come gliding down from a heaven within
      The golden heart of Paradise;
      And in their hands, with laughing eyes,
    Lay little brother Peterkin.

    And all around the Temple of the Smallest of the Flowers
      The glory of the angels made a star for little Peterkin;
    For all the Kings of Splendour and all the Heavenly Powers
    Were gathered there together in the fairy forest bowers
      With all their globed and radiant wings to make a star for Peterkin,
    The star that shone upon the East, a star that still is ours,
      Whene’er we hang our stockings up, a star of wings for Peterkin.

    Then all, in one great flash, was gone--
      A voice cried, “Hush, all’s well!”
    And we stood dreaming there alone,
      In darkness. Who can tell
    The mystic quiet that we felt,
    As if the woods in worship knelt,
      Far off we heard a bell
    Tolling strange human folk to prayer
    Through fields of sunset-coloured air.

    And then a voice, “Why, here they are!”
      And--as it seemed--we woke;
    The sweet old skies, great star by star
      Upon our vision broke;
    Field over field of heavenly blue
    Rose o’er us; then a voice we knew
      Softly and gently spoke--
    “See, they are sleeping by the side
    Of that dear little one--who died.”




          PART V

       THE HAPPY ENDING


    We told dear father all our tale
      That night before we went to bed,
    And at the end his face grew pale,
      And he bent over us and said
    (Was it not strange?) he, too, was there,
      A weary, weary watch to keep
      Before the gates of the City of Sleep;
    But, ere we came, he did not dare
      Even to dream of entering in,
      Or even to hope for Peterkin.
    He was the poor blind man, he said,
    And we--how low he bent his head!
    Then he called mother near; and low
    He whispered to us--“Prompt me now;
    For I forget that song we heard,
    But you remember every word.”
    Then memory came like a breaking morn,
    And we breathed it to him--_A child was born!_
    And there he drew us to his breast
    And softly murmured all the rest.--

    _The wise men came to greet him with their gifts
           of myrrh and frankincense,--_
      _Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;_
    _And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,_
      _My childhood’s heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._

    Then he looked up and mother knelt
      Beside us, oh, her eyes were bright;
    Her arms were like a lovely belt
      All round us as we said Good-night
    To father: _he_ was crying now,
    But they were happy tears, somehow;
    For there we saw dear mother lay
    Her cheek against his cheek and say--
    Hush, let me kiss those tears away.




          _DEDICATION_


    _What can a wanderer bring_
      _To little ones loved like you?_
    _You have songs of your own to sing_
      _That are far more steadfast and true,_
    _Crumbs of pity for birds_
      _That flit o’er your sun-swept lawn,_
    _Songs that are dearer than all our words_
      _With a love that is clear as the dawn._

    _What should a dreamer devise,_
      _In the depths of his wayward will,_
    _To deepen the gleam of your eyes_
      _Who can dance with the Sun-child still?_
    _Yet you glanced on his lonely way,_
      _You cheered him in dream and deed,_
    _And his heart is o’erflowing, o’erflowing to-day_
      _With a love that--you never will need._

    _What can a pilgrim teach_
      _To dwellers in fairy-land?_
    _Truth that excels all speech_
      _You murmur and understand!_
    _All he can sing you he brings;_
      _But--one thing more if he may_,
    _One thing more that the King of Kings_
      _Will take from the child on the way._

    _Yet how can a child of the night_
      _Brighten the light of the sun?_
    _How can he add a delight_
      _To the dances that never are done?_
    _Ah, what if he struggles to turn_
      _Once more to the sweet old skies_
    _With praise and praise, from the fetters that burn,_
      _To the God that brightened your eyes?_

    _Yes; he is weak, he will fail,_
      _Yet, what if, in sorrows apart,_
    _One thing, one should avail,_
      _The cry of a grateful heart;_
    _It has wings: they return through the night_
      _To a sky where the light lives yet,_
    _To the clouds that kneel on his mountain-height_
      _And the path that his feet forget._

    _What if he struggles and still_
      _Fails and struggles again?_
    _What if his broken will_
      _Whispers the struggle is vain?_
    _Once at least he has risen_
      _Because he remembered your eyes;_
    _Once they have brought to his earthly prison_
      _The passion of Paradise._

    _Kind little eyes that I love,_
      _Eyes forgetful of mine,_
    _In a dream I am bending above_
      _Your sleep, and you open and shine;_
    _And I know as my own grow blind_
      _With a lonely prayer for your sake,_
    _He will hear--even me--little eyes that were kind,_
      _God bless you, asleep or awake._

       *       *       *       *       *

BY ALFRED NOYES

Poems

With an Introduction by HAMILTON MABIE

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_

“Imagination, the capacity to perceive vividly and feel sincerely, and
the gift of fit and beautiful expression in verse-form--if these may be
taken as the equipment of a poet, nearly all of this volume is poetry.
And if to the sum of these be added the indescribable increment of charm
which comes occasionally to the work of some poet, quite unearned by any
of these catalogued qualities of his, you have a fair measure of Mr.
Noyes at his best.... Two considerations render Mr. Noyes interesting
above most poets: the wonderful degree in which the personal charm
illumines what he has already written, and the surprises which one feels
may be in store in his future work. His feelings have already so much
variety and so much apparent sincerity that it is impossible to tell in
what direction his genius will develop. In whatever style he
writes,--the mystical, the historical-dramatic, the impassioned
description of natural beauty, the ballad, the love lyric,--he has the
peculiarity of seeming in each style to have found the truest expression
of himself.”--_Louisville Courier-Journal._


_PUBLISHED BY_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Sixty-four and Sixty-six Fifth Avenue, New York




A History of English Poetry

BY W. J. COURTHOPE, C.B., D.Litt., LL.D.

Late Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford

_Cloth, 8vo, $3.25 net per volume_

     VOLUME I. The Middle Ages--Influence of the Roman Empire--The
     Encyclopædic Education of the Church--The Feudal System.

     VOLUME II. The Renaissance and the Reformation--Influence of the
     Court and the Universities.

     VOLUME III. English Poetry in the Seventeenth Century--Decadent
     Influence of the Feudal Monarchy--Growth of the National Genius.

     VOLUME IV. Development and Decline of the Poetic Drama--Influence
     of the Court and the People.

     VOLUME V. The Constitutional Compromise of the Eighteenth
     Century--Effects of the Classical Renaissance--Its Zenith and
     Decline--The Early Romantic Renaissance.


“It is his privilege to have made a contribution of great value and
signal importance to the history of English Literature.”--_Pall Mall
Gazette._


_PUBLISHED BY_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Sixty-four and Sixty-six Fifth Avenue, New York




RECENT POETRY


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_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net; by mail, $1.35_

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In the title of this book “Silverleaf” stands for South Africa, and
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Jeanne d’Arc

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Presented by E. H. Sothern and Julia Marlowe


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     The play was accepted before publication for presentation by E. H.
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=Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS’S= _POETIC PLAYS_


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Nero

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=Mr. WILLIAM B. YEATS’S= _COLLECTED POEMS_

Volume I: =Lyrical Poems=
Volume II: =Dramas in Verse=:--

     “The Countess Cathleen”--“The Land of Heart’s Desire”--“The King’s
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_Each volume, cloth, $1.25 net_