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  Her mother, Elfie older grown,
    One evening, for adieu,
  Said, "You'll not mind being left alone,
    For God takes care of you!"
 
 
  In child-way her heart's eye did see
    The correlation's node:
  "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me,
    An' I take care o' God."
 
 
  The child and woman were the same,
    She changed not, only grew;
  'Twixt God and her no shadow came:
    The true is always true!
 
 
  As daughter, sister, promised wife,
    Her heart with love did brim:
  Now, sure, it brims as full of life,
    Hid fourteen years in him!
 

1892.

THE SHADOWS

 
  My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks,
    And dreamy, large, brown eyes,
  Not often, little wisehead, speaks,
    But hearing, weighs and tries.
 
 
  "God is not only in the sky,"
    His sister said one day—
  Not older much, but she would cry
    Like Wisdom in the way—
 
 
  "He's in this room." His dreamy, clear,
    Large eyes look round for God:
  In vain they search, in vain they peer;
    His wits are all abroad!
 
 
  "He is not here, mamma? No, no;
    I do not see him at all!
  He's not the shadows, is he?" So
    His doubtful accents fall—
 
 
  Fall on my heart, no babble mere!
    They rouse both love and shame:
  But for earth's loneliness and fear,
    I might be saying the same!
 
 
  Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break
    And home the shadows flee,
  In my dim room even yet I take
    Those shadows, Lord, for thee!
 

THE CHILD-MOTHER

 
  Heavily slumbered noonday bright
  Upon the lone field, glory-dight,
    A burnished grassy sea:
  The child, in gorgeous golden hours,
  Through heaven-descended starry flowers,
    Went walking on the lea.
 
 
  Velvety bees make busy hum;
  Green flies and striped wasps go and come;
    The butterflies gleam white;
  Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro
  The dragon-flies like arrows go,
    Or hang in moveless flight:—
 
 
  Not one she followed; like a rill
  She wandered on with quiet will;
    Received, but did not miss;
  Her step was neither quick nor long;
  Nought but a snatch of murmured song
    Ever revealed her bliss.
 
 
  An almost solemn woman-child,
  Not fashioned frolicsome and wild,
    She had more love than glee;
  And now, though nine and nothing more,
  Another little child she bore,
    Almost as big as she.
 
 
  No silken cloud from solar harms
  Had she to spread; with shifting arms
    She dodged him from the sun;
  Mother and sister both in heart,
  She did a gracious woman's part,
    Life's task even now begun!
 
 
  They came upon a stagnant ditch,
  The slippery sloping banks of which
    More varied blossoms line;
  Some ragged-robins baby spies,
  Stretches his hands, and crows and cries,
    Plain saying, "They are mine!"
 
 
  What baby wants, that baby has—
  A law unalterable as
    The poor shall serve the rich:
  They are beyond her reach—almost!
  She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed,
    Topples into the ditch.
 
 
  Adown the side she slanting rolled,
  But her two arms convulsive hold
    The precious baby tight;
  She lets herself sublimely go,
  And in the ditch's muddy flow
    Stands up, in evil plight.
 
 
  'Tis nothing that her feet are wet,
  But her new shoes she can't forget—
    They cost five shillings bright!
  Her petticoat, her tippet blue,
  Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue!
    But baby is all right!
 
 
  And baby laughs, and baby crows;
  And baby being right, she knows
    That nothing can be wrong;
  So, with a troubled heart yet stout,
  She plans how ever to get out
    With meditation long.
 
 
  The high bank's edge is far away,
  The slope is steep, and made of clay;
    And what to do with baby?
  For even a monkey, up to run,
  Would need his four hands, every one:—
    She is perplexed as may be.
 
 
  And all her puzzling is no good!
  Blank-staring up the side she stood,
    Which, settling she, grew higher.
  At last, seized with a fresh dismay
  Lest baby's patience should give way,
    She plucked her feet from the mire,
 
 
  And up and down the ditch, not glad,
  But patient, very, did promenade—
    Splash, splash, went her small feet!
  And baby thought it rare good fun,
  Sucking his bit of pulpy bun,
    And smelling meadow-sweet.
 
 
  But, oh, the world that she had left—
  The meads from her so lately reft—
    Poor infant Proserpine!
  A fabled land they lay above,
  A paradise of sunny love,
    In breezy space divine!
 
 
  Frequent from neighbouring village-green
  Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen,
    And barks of well-known dogs,
  While she, the hot sun overhead,
  Her lonely watery way must tread
    In mud and weeds and frogs!
 
 
  Sudden, the ditch about her shakes;
  Her little heart, responsive, quakes
    With fear of uncouth woes;
  She lifts her boding eyes perforce—
  To see the huge head of a horse
    Go past upon its nose.
 
 
  Then, hark, what sounds of tearing grass
  And puffing breath!—With knobs of brass
    On horns of frightful size,
  A cow's head through the broken hedge
  Looks awful from the other edge,
    Though mild her pondering eyes.
 
 
  The horse, the cow are passed and gone;
  The sun keeps going on and on,
    And still no help comes near.—
  At misery's last—oh joy, the sound
  Of human footsteps on the ground!
    She cried aloud, "I'm here!"
 
 
  It was a man—oh, heavenly joy!
  He looked amazed at girl and boy,
    And reached his hand so strong:
  "Give me the child," he said; but no!
  Care would not let the burden go
    Which Love had borne so long.
 
 
  Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands,
  And them unparted safely lands
    In the upper world again.
  Her low thanks feebly murmured, she
  Drags her legs homeward painfully—
    Poor, wet, one-chickened hen!
 
 
  Arrived at length—Lo, scarce a speck
  Was on the child from heel to neck,
    Though she was sorely mired!
  No tear confessed the long-drawn rack,
  Till her mother took the baby back,
    And the she cried, "I'm tired!"
 
 
  And, intermixed with sobbing wail,
  She told her mother all the tale,
    Her wet cheeks in a glow:
  "But, mother, mother, though I fell,
  I kept the baby pretty well—
    I did not let him go!"
 

HE HEEDED NOT

 
  Of whispering trees the tongues to hear,
    And sermons of the silent stone;
  To read in brooks the print so clear
    Of motion, shadowy light, and tone—
  That man hath neither eye nor ear
    Who careth not for human moan.
 
 
  Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste,
    From sin that passeth helpless by;
  The weak antennae of whose taste
    From touch of alien grossness fly—
  Shall, banished to the outer waste,
    Never in Nature's bosom lie.
 
 
  But he whose heart is full of grace
    To his own kindred all about,
  Shall find in lowest human face,
    Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt,
  More than in Nature's holiest place
    Where mountains dwell and streams run out.
 
 
  Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear,
    In suburb-ways, one summer morn;
  A wretched alley I drew near
    Whence on the air the sounds were borne—
  Growls breaking into curses clear,
    And shrill retorts of keener scorn.
 
 
  Slow from its narrow entrance came,
    His senses drowned with revels dire,
  Scarce fit to answer to his name,
    A man unconscious save of ire;
  Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame
    Broke from the embers of his fire.
 
 
  He cast a glance of stupid hate
    Behind him, every step he took,
  Where followed him, like following fate,
    An aged crone, with bloated look:
  A something checked his listless gait;
    She neared him, rating till she shook.
 
 
  Why stood he still to be disgraced?
    What hindered? Lost in his employ,
  His eager head high as his waist,
    Half-buttressed him a tiny boy,
  An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced,
    Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy.
 
 
  Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled
    For one poor coin to keep the peace
  With hunger! or home would have led
    And given him up to sleep's release:
  Well he might know the good of bed
    To make the drunken fever cease!
 
 
  Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird
    He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher,
  But no expostulating word
    Did in his anxious soul aspire;
  With humbler care his heart was stirred,
    With humbler service to his sire.
 
 
  He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red,
    Though forward leaning, held his foot
  Lest on the darling he should tread:
    A misty sense had taken root
  Somewhere in his bewildered head
    That round him kindness hovered mute.
 
 
  The words his simmering rage did spill
    Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn;
  Safer than bee whose dodging skill
    And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn,
  The boy, absorbed in loving will,
    Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn.
 
 
  Over his calm, unconscious face
    No motion passed, no change of mood;
  Still as a pool in its own place,
    Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood,
  It kept its quiet shadowy grace,
    As round it all things had been good.
 
 
  Was the boy deaf—the tender palm
    Of him that made him folded round
  The little head to keep it calm
    With a hitherto to every sound—
  And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm
    Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound?
 
 
  Or came in force the happy law
    That customed things themselves erase?
  Or was he too intent for awe?
    Did love take all the thinking place?
  I cannot tell; I only saw
    An earnest, fearless, hopeless face.
 

THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT

 
  The thousand streets of London gray
    Repel all country sights;
  But bar not winds upon their way,
  Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay
    In depth of summer nights.
 
 
  And here and there an open spot,
    Still bare to light and dark,
  With grass receives the wanderer hot;
  There trees are growing, houses not—
    They call the place a park.
 
 
  Soft creatures, with ungentle guides,
    God's sheep from hill and plain,
  Flow thitherward in fitful tides,
  There weary lie on woolly sides,
    Or crop the grass amain.
 
 
  And from dark alley, yard, and den,
    In ragged skirts and coats,
  Come thither children of poor men,
  Wild things, untaught of word or pen—
    The little human goats.
 
 
  In Regent's Park, one cloudless day,
    An overdriven sheep,
  Come a hard, long, and dusty way,
  Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay,
    A panting woollen heap.
 
 
  But help is nearer than we know
    For ills of every name:
  Ragged enough to scare the crow,
  But with a heart to pity woe,
    A quick-eyed urchin came.
 
 
  Little he knew of field or fold,
    Yet knew what ailed; his cap
  Was ready cup for water cold;
  Though creased, and stained, and very old,
    'Twas not much torn, good hap!
 
 
  Shaping the rim and crown he went,
    Till crown from rim was deep;
  The water gushed from pore and rent,
  Before he came one half was spent—
    The other saved the sheep.
 
 
  O little goat, born, bred in ill,
    Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn,
  Thou to the sheep from breezy hill
  Wast bishop, pastor, what you will,
    In London dry and lorn!
 
 
  And let priests say the thing they please,
    My faith, though poor and dim,
  Thinks he will say who always sees,
  In doing it to one of these
    Thou didst it unto him.
 

THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER

 
  When things are holding wonted pace
  In wonted paths, without a trace
    Or hint of neighbouring wonder,
  Sometimes, from other realms, a tone,
  A scent, a vision, swift, alone,
    Breaks common life asunder.
 
 
  Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door,
  It makes you ponder something more—
    Unseen with seen things linking:
  To neighbours met one festive night,
  Was given a quaint and lovely sight,
    That set some of them thinking.
 
 
  They stand, in music's fetters bound
  By a clear brook of warbled sound,
    A canzonet of Haydn,
  When the door slowly comes ajar—
  A little further—just as far
    As shows a tiny maiden.
 
 
  Softly she enters, her pink toes
  Daintily peeping, as she goes,
    Her long nightgown from under.
  The varied mien, the questioning look
  Were worth a picture; but she took
    No notice of their wonder.
 
 
  They made a path, and she went through;
  She had her little chair in view
    Close by the chimney-corner;
  She turned, sat down before them all,
  Stately as princess at a ball,
    And silent as a mourner.
 
 
  Then looking closer yet, they spy
  What mazedness hid from every eye
    As ghost-like she came creeping:
  They see that though sweet little Rose
  Her settled way unerring goes,
    Plainly the child is sleeping.
 
 
  "Play on, sing on," the mother said;
  "Oft music draws her from her bed."—
    Dumb Echo, she sat listening;
  Over her face the sweet concent
  Like winds o'er placid waters went,
    Her cheeks like eyes were glistening.
 
 
  Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold
  Like long grass drooping on the wold
    Her sightless head is bending;
  She sits all ears, and drinks her fill,
  Then rising goes, sedate and still,
    On silent white feet wending.
 
 
  Surely, while she was listening so,
  Glad thoughts in her went to and fro
    Preparing her 'gainst sorrow,
  And ripening faith for that sure day
  When earnest first looks out of play,
    And thought out of to-morrow.
 
 
  She will not know from what fair skies
  Troop hopes to front anxieties—
    In what far fields they gather,
  Until she knows that even in sleep,
  Yea, in the dark of trouble deep,
    The child is with the Father.
 

A DREAM OF WAKING

 
  A child was born in sin and shame,
    Wronged by his very birth,
  Without a home, without a name,
    One over in the earth.
 
 
  No wifely triumph he inspired,
    Allayed no husband's fear;
  Intruder bare, whom none desired,
    He had a welcome drear.
 
 
  Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift
    For knocking at earth's gate,
  His mother, like an evil gift,
    Shunned him with sickly hate.
 
 
  And now the mistress on her knee
    The unloved baby bore,
  The while the servant sullenly
    Prepared to leave her door.
 
 
  Her eggs are dear to mother-dove,
    Her chickens to the hen;
  All young ones bring with them their love,
    Of sheep, or goats, or men!
 
 
  This one lone child shall not have come
    In vain for love to seek:
  Let mother's hardened heart be dumb,
    A sister-babe will speak!
 
 
  "Mother, keep baby—keep him so;
    Don't let him go away."
  "But, darling, if his mother go,
    Poor baby cannot stay."
 
 
  "He's crying, mother: don't you see
    He wants to stay with you?"
  "No, child; he does not care for me."
    "Do keep him, mother—do."
 
 
  "For his own mother he would cry;
    He's hungry now, I think."
  "Give him to me, and let me try
    If I can make him drink."
 
 
  "Susan would hurt him! Mother will
    Let the poor baby stay?"
  Her mother's heart grew sore, but still
    Baby must go away!
 
 
  The red lip trembled; the slow tears
    Came darkening in her eyes;
  Pressed on her heart a weight of fears
    That sought not ease in cries.
 
 
  'Twas torture—must not be endured!—
    A too outrageous grief!
  Was there an ill could not be cured?
    She would find some relief!
 
 
  All round her universe she pried:
    No dawn began to break:
  In prophet-agony she cried—
    "Mother! when shall we wake?"
 
 
  O insight born of torture's might!—
    Such grief can only seem.
  Rise o'er the hills, eternal light,
    And melt the earthly dream.