{North Coast and other Poems 1868}

                                                                                                                               124

THE BALLAD OF THE STORK.

(SCANDINAVIA.)

THE widow on the storm-tost shore of Denmark had her home,
Under the shade of pleasant woods, close to the salt sea-foam;
But little peace was in the hut, and grief was at the door,
For day and night the widow’s thoughts were tossing far from shore.

To Him whose white foot stills the waves and bids the storm be done,
The widow prayed upon her knees, to send her back her son;
For GOD had sent a watery wind to blow the boy away,
And to the Indies he had sailed all on a summer’s day.

‘See, mother, mother!’ cried the lad, ‘thou hast not land nor gold;                             125
The dun cow, fastened to its ring, grows dry and waxes old,—
But, running silver from this cup, the water says to me,
“What fool would starve ashore when wealth is on the shining sea?”

And sticking in his cap a sprig of green, he kissed her lips,
And sprang away that summer day, and rowed among the ships;
And, weeping, on the beach she stands,—sails fill and pennons fly,—
He stands on deck, and waves his cap—and the great ship goes by.

Three years she waited wearily, and watched with weary eyne,
And spun upon the threshold as she searched the straight sea-line;
And pale she tossed on bed o’ straw, and heard the waters moan,
And day still came and went at sea, and still she was alone.

Ah, little one! ah, wilful one! now are ye fast asleep!                                                 126
The waters roar around your bones under the dreadful deep:
Your sleep is in the dark cold depths,—you cannot turn nor cry;
No mother now may keep you warm, or kiss you where ye lie.’

To kirk she hied full wearily upon each holy day,
Yet little peace the kirk could give—she had no heart to pray;
But in September, when they read the tale of other years,
About the widow’s son of Nain, her heart was full to tears.

Then to the hut she weeping turned, and wearied on once more,
And sadly watched the tall ash tree that grew beside her door;
For there a Stork had made his home for many a year, and he
Was now an ancient Stork, and knew full many a far countree.

For every autumn on the roof he stood and waved his wing,                                     127
Then cloudwards rose, and in the wind went southward travelling;
And every spring on stately wing back to the hut he hied,
Far as the Red Sea had he fared, with summer for his guide.

And now the widow saw him rise, less fleet of wing and strong,
For now he was an ancient Stork, nor would his years be long.
‘Ah me!’ she thought; ‘with thee, old friend, my laddie played full sweet—
Green leaves he tied around thy neck, and gave thee food to eat.

‘Perchance thy sharp round eye hath seen what still is hid from me—
My little one afloat and dead upon a glassy sea.
Here hast thou dwelt for many a year, and we have watched thy nest,
But thou art powerless in thy turn to help my heart to rest.’

How! powerless? GOD’s mild will to work what thing is quite unmeet?                      128
Where is the widow’s wandered son? wrapt in his winding-sheet?
Nay, on Morocco’s blazing shore with slaves behold him stand,—
Weeping, he shakes a chain, and looks towards his native land.

He heeds not yonder sweet-eyed slave, who smiles to soothe his pain,
Nor yonder fat and turbaned Turk, who holds him in his chain;
He thinks upon his mother’s hut, he bites his bitter lips,
He strains his eyes, and in a mist of tears he sees the ships.

But suddenly he stares amazed, for near him on the sand,
With long spare legs and ancient air, he sees a stranger stand—
A Stork, a grim and ancient Stork, full dim and dull of e’e,
The picture of the Stork he knew within his own countree.

‘Ah! could it be indeed my old brave comrade travelling?
He hath the same bright beak and feet, the same black ruffled wing;
I seem to know the very walk; the solemn stately pace,                                             130
And I could almost swear he hath some memory of my face.’

’Tis spring again in Denmark, and all is green once more,
‘Spring comes again! the stork has come!’ they cry upon the shore;
And all the folk wear feast-day dress, and the good priest is there;
And with the rest the widow stands, and looks into the air.

It is the Stork, the ancient Stork,—he lights upon the ground:
‘Oh, see!’ they cry, ‘around his feet a paper tightly bound.’
They loose it then with eager hands, they open it and read,—
The widow screams, for here is wrought a miracle indeed!

‘O mother, here I dwell alive, but held in slaverie,
So gather, gather gold, and send a ransom o’er the sea.
If this should reach thy hands, bless GOD, who sent the bird to me.’—                       131
And all the rest was guidance how to send and set him free.

Oh, who that Sabbath was so pinched as grudge from out his store
A silver mite to fill the plate they placed at the kirk door,
The cow-girl brought the piece of gold that was to buy a gown,
The beggar slyly neared the plate, and threw his beggings down.

Now in his mother’s hut again the sailor sits once more,
Content to cast a fisher’s net, nor wander far from shore.
But blessings on the ancient Stork, and honours three times three,
Who followed summer round the world, and set the sailor free!

 

[Notes:
‘The Ballad of the Stork’ is not included in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’.]

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                                                                                                            132

SIGURD OF SAXONY.

(MEDIÆVAL.)

THE sedgy shores of this enchanted lake
Are dark with shadows of the swans which make
          Their nests along its marge;
And on the hither side, where silver waves
Curl with low music into hollow caves,
          Waiting for that bright barge
Which beareth sleepers to the silent land,
I, Sigurd, in my ghostly sorrow, stand.

I stand alone beneath heaven’s silent arch,
Shaded both night and day by clouds that march
          And countermarch above;
A sombre suit of perfect mail I wear,
A gloomy plume, that troubles the thin air
          To murmurs if I move;
My sword is red and broken; and my shield
Bears a gold anchor on a sable field.

This is a place where mortals find not speech;
Save the small murmurous waves that crawl the beach,
          All is as still as death:                                                                  134
I hear my heart against my ribs of stone,
Like to a wild bird in the net, make moan;
          My slow and frozen breath
Curls like a vapour o’er the silent spot;
My shadow seeks my feet, and moveth not.

Nought can redeem her. Wherefore I seek grace
To join her in her distant dwelling-place
          Of pastoral repose;
And I would make this heart that aches and grieves
As white and perfect as a lily’s leaves
          And fragrant as a rose,
That with a stainless spirit I may take
The solemn barge across the enchanted lake.

For, having worn her stainless badge in fight,
Thrice conquering in her name, by day and night
          I rode with vizor down,
Meeting and slaying honourable foes,
Wounded in flesh, giving and taking blows,
          To compass her renown.
Thus, warring a sweet war without reprieve,
I, Sigurd, wore her badge upon my sleeve.

Arméd from head to heel, with spear in hand,                                       135
I cried her praises through the wondering land,
          And few her praise refused;
Then flushing with my victory complete,
I hastened back and knelt me at her feet,
          Battered, and maimed, and bruised;
And then I wooed her in a secret place,
With light upon me from her shining face.

She bathed my bloody brow, with red wounds striped,
And with a kerchief white as snow she wiped
          The foam from off my mouth;
She set my unhelmed head upon her knee,
And wound white arms about me tenderly,
          And slaked the thirsty drouth
That ebbed in sluggish fire through blood and brain,
From a full cup of cool white porcelain.

Wherefore my soul again was strong. I caught
The voiceless music of her form and thought.
          I knelt upon my knee,
Saying, ‘I love thee more than life or fame;
I love thee only less than my good name,
          Which is a part of thee;                                                               136
And I adore thy beauty undefiled!’
Whereat she looked into mine eyes and smiled.

I wooed her night and day with virtuous deeds,
And that humility which intercedes
          With ladies for true men.
I took her lily of a hand in mine,
Drinking her breath, as soft as eglantine,
          And wooing well; and then
She toyed with my great beard, and gave consent:
So down the flowery path of love we went.

Twined closely, down the soft descent of love
We wandered on, with golden stars above,
          And many flowers below,
Until we came to this dark lake or sea,
Which openeth upon eternity,
          And could no farther go;
For beyond life and death, and these dark skies,
The place of sleep, the Silent Valley, lies.

Here on the beach we stood, and hand in hand
Waited to wander to that silent land,

          And all the shore was dark;
Saying, ‘We yearn to see the Happy Vale,
And hand in hand together we will sail
          In the enchanted barque.’                                                           138
Too late to turn: one passage we must take
Across the gleaming silence of the lake.

She said, ‘The waters make such threatening moan,
Neither can pass across their waste alone;
          We cannot, cannot part;
We will together cross these waves of death.’
But the dark waves grew darker, and the breath
          Came colder from the heart;
And by each face a quiet cloud was worn,
Small as the shadow of a lamb new born.

Then in the distant waves we could behold
A radiance like the blowing autumn gold
          Of woodland forests deep;
And my sweet lady trembled, growing white
As foam of ocean on a summer night,
          When the wild surges leap;
And falling very cold upon my breast,
She faltered, ‘I am weary,—let me rest.’

I laid her down upon a flowery bed,
And put soft mosses underneath her head,
          And kissed her, and she slept;                                                     139
And the air brightened round her, as the far
Blue ether burns like silver round a star.
          And round her slumber crept
A trouble of the air, and silver clear
The ghostly light upon the lake grew near.

Yea, nearer, nearer grew the light, and soon,
Shaped like the sickle of the early moon,
          The barge drew shoreward slow—
A vapour and a radiance all around,
A gleaming of fair faces, and a sound
          Of flutes and lute-strings low.
And round my lady crept a shadowy crowd,
Fading and brightening like a moonlit cloud.

They clustered with a ghostly light around
My lady dear, and raised her from the ground,
          And bare her to the barque;
Whereon I would have followed, but a hand
Held me like iron to the hated land.
          Then all again was dark;
And from the breathing darkness came a hum
Of voices sweet, ‘Thy time has not yet come.’

And then I shrieked in utter agony;                                                        140
While fading far away upon the sea                                                      [17:2]
          I saw the light again;
And with a cry into the waves I sprung,
And sought to follow, but the waters clung
          About me like a chain;
And thrice I fought amid their rage and roar,
And thrice they hurled me bleeding on the shore.

Long have I waited here, alone, alone,
Hearing the melancholy waves make moan
          Upon the pebbly beach:
With eyes upon the pitiless stars above
Here have I waited in my homeless love,
          Pale, patient, deaf to speech,
With the salt rheum upon me, pale and bent,
And breathless as a marble monument.

This lonely watching would invite despair
Did I not oft catch glimpses of my fair
          Lady, so sadly lost,
Making, with radiance round her like a star,
A luminous pathway on the hill afar,
          Then fading like a ghost;
What time I shout aloud, and at the shout                                              141
Pause, shuddering at the echoes round about.

Twice has the barge returned: once for a bent
Old servitor, who, down the soft descent
          That leads to this dim land,
Had wandered from the towns that lie behind,
And, groping in the cold, had fall’n stone-blind
          Upon the shifting sand;
Once for a little gold-haired child astray,
Who, wandering hither, fell to sleep at play.

Twice has the mystic barge returned, and twice
Have I been frozen to the earth in ice,
          Helpless to move or speak;
Thrice have I fought with the relentless roar
Of water, and been flung upon the shore
          Battered, and maimed, and weak;
But now I wait with quiet heart and brain,
Grown patient with unutterable pain.

And I will wait. To slay myself were sin,
And I, self-slaughtered, could not hope to win                                      [22:2]
          My solitary boon;
But if the barge should come again, and leave                                        142
Me still in lonely watch without reprieve,
          Under the silver moon
I will lie down upon my back and rest,
With mailéd hands crossed praying on my breast;

And fall to slumber on a bed of weeds,
A knight well worn in honourable deeds,
          Yet lost to life, and old;
And haply I may dream before I wake
That I am floating o’er the pathless lake
          In that bright barge of gold;
And, waking, I may see with sweet surprise
Light shining on me from my lady’s eyes.

 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
v. 17, l. 2: While fading far away upon the sea,
v. 22, l. 2: And I, self-slaughter’d, could not hope to win]

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                                                                                                            143

A POEM TO DAVID.*

I.

I WOULD not be lying yonder,
     Where thou, belovéd, art lying,
Though the nations should crown me living,
     And murmur my praises dying.

Better this fierce pulsation,
     Better this aching brain,
Than dream, and hear faintly above me
     The cry of the wind and the rain;

Than lie in the kirkyard lonely,
     With fingers and toes upcurled,
And be conscious of never a motion
     Save the slow rolling round of the world.

I would not be lying yonder,                                                                  144
     Though the seeds I had sown were springing!
I would not be sleeping yonder,
     And be done with striving and singing!

For the eyes are blinded with mildew,
     The lips are clammy with clay,
And worms in the ears are crawling,—
     But the brain is the brain for aye!

The brain is warm and glowing,
     Whatever the body be;
It stirs like a thing that breatheth,
     And dreams of the Past and To be!

Ay! down in the deep damp darkness
     The brains of the dead are hovelled!
They gleam on each other with radiance,
     Transcending the eye that is shrivelled!

Each like a faint lamp lighteth
     The skull wherein it dwelleth!
Each like a lamp turneth brighter
     Whenever the kirk-bell knelleth!

I would not be lying yonder                                                                   145
     Afar from the music of things,
Not were my green grave watered
     By the tears of queens and kings.

If the brain like a thing that breatheth
     Is full of the Past and To be,
The silence is far more awful
     Than the shriek and the agony;

And the hope that sweetened living
     Is gone with the light of the sun,
And the struggle seems wholly over,
     And nothing at all seems done;

And the dreams are heavy with losses,
     And sins, and errors, and wrongs,
And you cannot hear in the darkness
     If the people are singing your songs!

There’s only the slow still rolling
     Of the dark world round and round,
Making the dream more wondrous,
     Though it render the sleep more sound.

’T is cold, cold, cold and weary,                                                           146
     Cold in a weary place:
The sense of the sin is present
     Like the gleam of a demon’s face!

What matter the tingling fingers
     That touch the song above you?
What matter the young man’s weeping,
     And longing to know you and love you?

Nought has been said and uttered,
     Nought has been seen or known,—
Detraction, the adder above you,
     Is sunned on the cold grave-stone.

 

II.

Yet ’t is dark here, dark,
     And the voices call from below!
’T is so dark, dark, dark,
     That it seems not hard to go!

’T is dark, dark, dark,                                                                          147
     And we close our eyes and are weary!
’T is dark, dark, dark,
     And the waiting seems bitter and dreary!

And yonder the sun is shining,
     And the green, long grass hath grown,
And the cool kirk-shade looks pleasant,
     And you lie so alone, so alone!

The world is heartless and hollow,
     And singing is sad without you,
And I think I could bear the dreaming
     Were mine arms around about you;

Were thy lips to mine, belovéd,
     And thine arms around me too,
I think I could lie in silence,
     And dream as we used to do!

The flesh and the bones might wither,
     The blood be dried like dew,
The heart might crumble to ashes,
     Till dust was dust anew;

And the world with its slow still motion                                                  148
     Might roll on its heavenward way,—
And our brains upon one another
     Would gleam till the Judgment Day!

* David Gray, Author of “The Luggie, and other Poems.”

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North Coast and other Poems continued

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North Coast and other Poems Contents