Read Ebook: Lays and Legends (Second Series) by Nesbit E Edith

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n through my soul a clear light shone; What I would do, my Lord has done; He bore the whole world's crown of thorn-- For her sake, too, that crown was worn!

THE DEVIL'S DUE.

A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free labour of love--as was men's wont in those days; and how the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the pillage of the poor--and of what chanced thereafter.

Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, For warning in your younger ears, Humbly and plainly what befel That year--gone by a many years-- When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men: We see not now their like again.

We built it on the green hill-side That leans its bosom o'er the town, So that its presence, sanctified, Might ever on our lives look down. We built; and those who built not, they Brought us their blessing day by day, And lingered to rejoice and pray.

For years the masons toiled, for years The craftsmen wrought till they had made A church we scarce could see for tears-- Its fairness made our love afraid. Its clear-cut cream-white tracery Stood out against the deep bright sky Like good deeds 'gainst eternity.

In the deep roof each separate beam Had its own garland--ivy, vine,-- Giving to man the carver's dream, In sight of men a certain sign-- And all day long the workers plied. "The church shall finished be," we cried, "And consecrate by Easter-tide."

Our church! It was so fair, so dear, So fit a church to praise God in! It had such show of carven gear, Such chiselled work, without, within! Such marble for the steps and floor, Such window-jewels and such store Of gold and gems the altar bore!

At last the echo died in air Of the last stroke. The silence then Passed in to fill the church, left bare Of the loving voice of Christian men. The silence saddened all the sun, So gladly was our work begun. Now all that happy work was done.

Did any voices in the night Call through those arches? Were there wings That swept between the pillars white-- Wide pinions of unvisioned things? The priests who watched the relics heard Wing-whispers--not of bat or bird-- And moan of inarticulate word.

Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air Adorned our church, and there were borne Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair To grace the consecration morn. Then round our church trooped knight and dame; Within, alone, the bishop came, And the twelve candles leaped to flame.

Then round our church the bishop went With all his priests--a brave array. There was no sign nor portent sent As, glad at heart, he went his way, Sprinkling the holy water round Three times on walls and crowd and ground Within the churchyard's sacred bound.

Then--but ye know the function's scope At consecration--all the show Of torch and incense, stole and cope; And how the acolytes do go Before the bishop--how they bear The lighted tapers, flaming fair, Blown back by the sweet wavering air.

The bishop, knocking at the door, The deacon answering from within, "Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure The King of Glory shall come in"-- The bishop passed in with the choir. Thank God for this--our soul's desire, Our altar, meet for heaven's fire!

For, as the bishop's voice rang clear, Another voice rang clearer still-- A voice wherein the soul could hear The discord of unmeasured ill-- And sudden breathless silence fell On all the church. And I wot well There are such silences in hell.

Taper and torch died down--went out-- And all our church grew dark and cold, And deathly odours crept about, And chill, as of the churchyard mould; And every flower drooped its head, And all the rose's leaves were shed, And all the lilies dropped down dead.

There, in the bishop's chair, we saw-- How can I tell you? Memories shrink To mix anew the cup of awe We shuddering mortals had to drink. What was it? There! The shape that stood Before the altar and the rood-- It was not human flesh and blood!

A light more bright than any sun, A shade more dark than any night, A shape that human shape was none, A cloud, a sense of wing?d might, And, like an infernal trumpet sound, Rang through the church's hush profound A voice. We listened horror-bound.

"Your King has cursed the usurer's gold, He gives it to me for my fee! Your church is builded, but behold Your church is fair for me--for me! Who robs the poor to me is given; Impenitent and unforgiven, His church is built for hell, not heaven!"

Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear, And all men stood as turned to stone; Each man beheld through dews of fear A face--his own--yet not his own; His own face, darkened, lost, debased, With hell's own signet stamped and traced, And all the God in it effaced.

A crash like thunder shook the walls, A flame like lightning shot them through: "Fly, fly before the judgment falls, And all the stones be fallen on you!" And as we fled we saw bright gleams Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams. Our church! Oh, love--oh, hopes--oh, dreams!

We stood without--a pallid throng-- And as the flame leaped high and higher, Shrill winds we heard that rushed along And fanned the transports of the fire. The sky grew black; against the sky The blue and scarlet flames leaped high, And cries as of lost souls wailed by.

Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire-- A blackened ruin--fell and lay. The very earth about caught fire, And flame-tongues licked along the clay. The fire did neither stay nor spare Till the foundations were laid bare To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air.

There in the sight of men it lay, Our church that we had made so fair! A heap of ashes white and gray, With sparks still gleaming here and there. The sun came out again, and shone On all our loving work undone-- Our church destroyed, our labour gone!

Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no! The hands that builded built aright: The men who loved and laboured so, Their church is built in heaven's height! In every stone a glittering gem, Gold in the gold Jerusalem-- The church their love built waits for them.

LOVE IN JUNE.

Through the glowing meadows aflame With buttercup gold I came To the green, still heart of the wood. A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed, The hazel-stems grew close, Like leaves round the heart of a rose, Round the still, green nest that I chose.

Then I gathered the bracken that grew In a fairy forest all round, And I laid it in heaps on the ground With grass and blossoms and leaves. I gathered the summer in sheaves, And pale, rare roses a few, And spread out a carpet meet For the touch of my lady's feet.

I waited; the wood was still; Only one little brown bird On a hazel swayed and stirred With the impulse of his song; And I waited, and time was long.

Then I heard a step on the grass In the path where the others pass, And a voice like a voice in a dream; And I saw a glory, a gleam, A flash of white through the green ; And the summer sighed her name As she and the sunshine came: O sun and blue sky and delight! O eyes and lips of my queen!

What was done there or said No one will ever know, For nobody saw or heard Save one little, brown, bright bird Who swayed on a twig overhead, And he will never betray; But all who pass by that way, As they near the spot where we lay Among the blossoms and grass Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick , Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers, That rhymes with the summer and sun, With the lover to win or won, With the wild-flower crown of delight, The crown of love that was ours.

THE GARDEN.

My garden was lovely to see, For all things fair, Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, I had planted there. There were pinks and lilies and stocks, Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, And clematis white and blue, And pansies and daisies and phlox. And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, And all things were ready to greet my lady On the Life's-love-crowning day When she should come To her lover's home, To give herself to me.

I saw the red of the roses-- The royal roses that bloomed for her sake. "They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: They shall droop on her heart and die." I dreamed in the orchard-closes: "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: And thank God for this".

I leaned where the jasmine white Wreathed all my window round: "Here we will lean, I and my queen, And look out on the broad moonlight. For there shall be moonlight--bright-- On my wedding-night."

She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours. The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered--to honour and sorrow born. They lay round her, touched her close. The jasmine stars--white stars, that about our window their faint light shed, Lay round her head. And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand.

They lie by her--rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest-- I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude-- Where she never stood-- On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow,-- As if any one cared How they fared! And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword-- Life's pitiless Lord-- And I know I never may pass. Alas! alas! O Rose! my rose! I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of God.

PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES.

O God, let there be rain! Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain,-- Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain. Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main! Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O God, let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain! To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety. Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, And some day send us the sun again. O God, let there be rain!

A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE.

Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too,--or so it seems-- Dust in the place of dreams.

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name. Work is the end and aim of their lives-- Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Work--one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease.

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night? God will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you--every one-- Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work--in hell!

LONDON'S VOICES

SPEAK TO TWO SOULS--WHO THUS REPLY:

In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions--is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?-- That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

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