Book 2 — THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]

[Part I—From MS.]

Beneath this thorn when I was young, This thorn that blooms so sweet, We loved to stretch our lazy limbs In summer's noon-tide heat. And hither too the old man came, 5 The maiden and her feer, 'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why The toad has harbour here. 'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead, But still it blossoms sweet; 10 Then tell me why all round its roots The dock and nettle meet. 'Why here the hemlock, &c. [sic in MS.] 'Why these three graves all side by side, Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15 Stretch out so green and dark a length, By any foot unworn.' There, there a ruthless mother lies Beneath the flowery thorn; And there a barren wife is laid, 20 And there a maid forlorn. The barren wife and maid forlorn Did love each other dear; The ruthless mother wrought the woe, And cost them many a tear. 25 Fair Ellen was of serious mind, Her temper mild and even, And Mary, graceful as the fir That points the spire to heaven. Young Edward he to Mary said, 30 'I would you were my bride,' And she was scarlet as he spoke, And turned her face to hide. 'You know my mother she is rich, And you have little gear; 35 And go and if she say not Nay, Then I will be your fere.' Young Edward to the mother went. To him the mother said: 'In truth you are a comely man; 40 You shall my daughter wed.' [271:1][In Mary's joy fair Eleanor Did bear a sister's part; For why, though not akin in blood, They sisters were in heart.] 45 Small need to tell to any man That ever shed a tear What passed within the lover's heart The happy day so near. The mother, more than mothers use, 50 Rejoiced when they were by; And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2] Beneath the mother's eye. And here within the flowering thorn How deep they drank of joy: 55 The mother fed upon the sight, Nor . . . [sic in MS.]

[Part II—From MS.][271:3]

And now the wedding day was fix'd, The wedding-ring was bought; The wedding-cake with her own hand 60 The ruthless mother brought. 'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth The maid shall be a bride'; Thus Edward to the mother spake While she sate by his side. 65 Alone they sate within the bower: The mother's colour fled, For Mary's foot was heard above— She decked the bridal bed. And when her foot was on the stairs 70 To meet her at the door, With steady step the mother rose, And silent left the bower. She stood, her back against the door, And when her child drew near— 75 'Away! away!' the mother cried, 'Ye shall not enter here. 'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile, And rob me of my mate?' And on her child the mother scowled 80 A deadly leer of hate. Fast rooted to the spot, you guess, The wretched maiden stood, As pale as any ghost of night That wanteth flesh and blood. 85 She did not groan, she did not fall, She did not shed a tear, Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why May I not enter here?' But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90 As if her sense was fled, And then her trembling limbs she threw Upon the bridal bed. The mother she to Edward went Where he sate in the bower, 95 And said, 'That woman is not fit To be your paramour. 'She is my child—it makes my heart With grief and trouble swell; I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100 For never worse befel. 'For she is fierce and she is proud, And of an envious mind; A wily hypocrite she is, And giddy as the wind. 105 'And if you go to church with her, You'll rue the bitter smart; For she will wrong your marriage-bed, And she will break your heart. 'Oh God, to think that I have shared 110 Her deadly sin so long; She is my child, and therefore I As mother held my tongue. 'She is my child, I've risked for her My living soul's estate: 115 I cannot say my daily prayers, The burthen is so great. 'And she would scatter gold about Until her back was bare; And should you swing for lust of hers 120 In truth she'd little care.' Then in a softer tone she said, And took him by the hand: 'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's I'd give my house and land. 125 'And if you'll go to church with me, And take me for your bride, I'll make you heir of all I have— Nothing shall be denied.' Then Edward started from his seat, 130 And he laughed loud and long— 'In truth, good mother, you are mad, Or drunk with liquor strong.' To him no word the mother said, But on her knees she fell, 135 And fetched her breath while thrice your hand Might toll the passing-bell. 'Thou daughter now above my head, Whom in my womb I bore, May every drop of thy heart's blood 140 Be curst for ever more. 'And curséd be the hour when first I heard thee wawl and cry; And in the Church-yard curséd be The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145 And Mary on the bridal-bed Her mother's curse had heard; And while the cruel mother spake The bed beneath her stirred. In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150 And turning round he sees The mother looking up to God And still upon her knees. Young Edward he to Mary went When on the bed she lay: 155 'Sweet love, this is a wicked house— Sweet love, we must away.' He raised her from the bridal-bed, All pale and wan with fear; 'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160 No Dog would kennel here.' He led her from the bridal-bed, He led her from the stairs. [Had sense been hers she had not dar'd To venture on her prayers. MS. erased.] The mother still was in the bower, And with a greedy heart 165 She drank perdition on her knees, Which never may depart. But when their steps were heard below On God she did not call; She did forget the God of Heaven, 170 For they were in the hall. She started up—the servant maid Did see her when she rose; And she has oft declared to me The blood within her froze. 175 As Edward led his bride away And hurried to the door, The ruthless mother springing forth Stopped midway on the floor. What did she mean? What did she mean? 180 For with a smile she cried: 'Unblest ye shall not pass my door, The bride-groom and his bride. 'Be blithe as lambs in April are, As flies when fruits are red; 185 May God forbid that thought of me Should haunt your marriage-bed. 'And let the night be given to bliss, The day be given to glee: I am a woman weak and old, 190 Why turn a thought on me? 'What can an agéd mother do, And what have ye to dread? A curse is wind, it hath no shape To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195 When they were gone and out of sight She rent her hoary hair, And foamed like any Dog of June When sultry sun-beams glare. * * * * * Now ask you why the barren wife, 200 And why the maid forlorn, And why the ruthless mother lies Beneath the flowery thorn? Three times, three times this spade of mine, In spite of bolt or bar, 205 Did from beneath the belfry come, When spirits wandering are. And when the mother's soul to Hell By howling fiends was borne, This spade was seen to mark her grave 210 Beneath the flowery thorn. And when the death-knock at the door Called home the maid forlorn, This spade was seen to mark her grave Beneath the flowery thorn. 215 And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree; The ghosts that round it meet, 'Tis they that cut the rind at night, Yet still it blossoms sweet. * * * * *

Part III[276:1]

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 220 Were ripe as ripe could be; And yellow leaves in sun and wind Were falling from the tree. On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane Still swung the spikes of corn: 225 Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday— Young Edward's marriage-morn. Up through that wood behind the church, There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over boughed, 230 For half a mile or more. And from their house-door by that track The bride and bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, Seemed cheerful and content. 235 But when they to the church-yard came, I've heard poor Mary say, As soon as she stepped into the sun, Her heart it died away. And when the Vicar join'd their hands, 240 Her limbs did creep and freeze: But when they prayed, she thought she saw Her mother on her knees. And o'er the church-path they returned— I saw poor Mary's back, 245 Just as she stepped beneath the boughs Into the mossy track. Her feet upon the mossy track The married maiden set: That moment—I have heard her say— 250 She wished she could forget. The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat— Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out, They seemed to stop her breath. 255 Beneath the foulest mother's curse No child could ever thrive: A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive. So five months passed: the mother still 260 Would never heal the strife; But Edward was a loving man And Mary a fond wife. 'My sister may not visit us, My mother says her nay: 265 O Edward! you are all to me, I wish for your sake I could be More lifesome and more gay. 'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed I know I have no reason! 270 Perhaps I am not well in health, And 'tis a gloomy season.' 'Twas a drizzly time—no ice, no snow! And on the few fine days She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275 Her mother in the ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery. 280 Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend. More dear than any sister! As cheerful too as singing lark; And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, And then they always missed her. 285 And now Ash-Wednesday came—that day But few to church repair: For on that day you know we read The Commination prayer. Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 290 Once, Sir, he said to me, He wished that service was clean out Of our good Liturgy. The mother walked into the church— To Ellen's seat she went: 295 Though Ellen always kept her church All church-days during Lent. And gentle Ellen welcomed her With courteous looks and mild: Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300 And all be reconciled!' The day was scarcely like a day— The clouds were black outright: And many a night, with half a moon, I've seen the church more light. 305 The wind was wild; against the glass The rain did beat and bicker; The church-tower swinging over head, You scarce could hear the Vicar! And then and there the mother knelt, 310 And audibly she cried— 'Oh! may a clinging curse consume This woman by my side! 'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven. Although you take my life— 315 O curse this woman, at whose house Young Edward woo'd his wife. 'By night and day, in bed and bower, O let her curséd be!!!' So having prayed, steady and slow, 320 She rose up from her knee! And left the church, nor e'er again The church-door entered she. I saw poor Ellen kneeling still, So pale! I guessed not why: 325 When she stood up, there plainly was A trouble in her eye. And when the prayers were done, we all Came round and asked her why: Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330 A trouble in her eye. But ere she from the church-door stepped She smiled and told us why: 'It was a wicked woman's curse,' Quoth she, 'and what care I?' 335 She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off Ere from the door she stept— But all agree it would have been Much better had she wept. And if her heart was not at ease, 340 This was her constant cry— 'It was a wicked woman's curse— God's good, and what care I?' There was a hurry in her looks, Her struggles she redoubled: 345 'It was a wicked woman's curse, And why should I be troubled?' These tears will come—I dandled her When 'twas the merest fairy— Good creature! and she hid it all: 350 She told it not to Mary. But Mary heard the tale: her arms Round Ellen's neck she threw; 'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, And now she hath cursed you!' 355 I saw young Edward by himself Stalk fast adown the lee, He snatched a stick from every fence, A twig from every tree. He snapped them still with hand or knee, 360 And then away they flew! As if with his uneasy limbs He knew not what to do! You see, good sir! that single hill? His farm lies underneath: 365 He heard it there, he heard it all, And only gnashed his teeth. Now Ellen was a darling love In all his joys and cares: And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370 Fast-linked they both together came, Whene'er he said his prayers. And in the moment of his prayers He loved them both alike: Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375 Upon his heart did strike! He reach'd his home, and by his looks They saw his inward strife: And they clung round him with their arms, Both Ellen and his wife. 380 And Mary could not check her tears, So on his breast she bowed; Then frenzy melted into grief, And Edward wept aloud. Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 385 But closelier did she cling, And turned her face and looked as if She saw some frightful thing.

Part IV

To see a man tread over graves I hold it no good mark; 390 'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, And bad luck in the dark! You see that grave? The Lord he gives, The Lord, he takes away: O Sir! the child of my old age 395 Lies there as cold as clay. Except that grave, you scarce see one That was not dug by me; I'd rather dance upon 'em all Than tread upon these three! 400 'Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale.' You, Sir! are but a lad; This month I'm in my seventieth year, And still it makes me sad. And Mary's sister told it me, 405 For three good hours and more; Though I had heard it, in the main, From Edward's self, before. Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410 And she went oftener than before, And Mary loved her more and more: She managed all the dairy. To market she on market-days, To church on Sundays came; 415 All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir! But all was not the same! Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no! But she was seldom cheerful; And Edward looked as if he thought 420 That Ellen's mirth was fearful. When by herself, she to herself Must sing some merry rhyme; She could not now be glad for hours, Yet silent all the time. 425 And when she soothed her friend, through all Her soothing words 'twas plain She had a sore grief of her own, A haunting in her brain. And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! 430 And then her wrist she spanned; And once when Mary was down-cast, She took her by the hand, And gazed upon her, and at first She gently pressed her hand; 435 Then harder, till her grasp at length Did gripe like a convulsion! 'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be Made happy by compulsion!' And once her both arms suddenly 440 Round Mary's neck she flung, And her heart panted, and she felt The words upon her tongue. She felt them coming, but no power Had she the words to smother: 445 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!' So gentle Ellen now no more Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways 450 Drove Edward wild and weary. Lingering he raised his latch at eve, Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet Home was no home to him. 455 One evening he took up a book, And nothing in it read; Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 'O! Heaven! that I were dead.' Mary looked up into his face, 460 And nothing to him said; She tried to smile, and on his arm Mournfully leaned her head. And he burst into tears, and fell Upon his knees in prayer: 465 'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, It is too great to bear!' 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, Sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring 470 Was late uncommonly. And then the hot days, all at once, They came, we knew not how: You looked about for shade, when scarce A leaf was on a bough. 475 It happened then ('twas in the bower, A furlong up the wood: Perhaps you know the place, and yet I scarce know how you should,) No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 480 To any pasture-plot; But clustered near the chattering brook, Lone hollies marked the spot. Those hollies of themselves a shape As of an arbour took, 485 A close, round arbour; and it stands Not three strides from a brook. Within this arbour, which was still With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490 Just as the first bell rung. 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell. 495 His limbs along the moss, his head Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep. 500 And he had passed a restless night. And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side, And talked as 'twere by stealth. 'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 505 See, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee; 'A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too; 510 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Make up a glory gay and bright Round that small orb, so blue.' And then they argued of those rays, What colour they might be; 515 Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that, 'They're amber-like to me.' So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts Were troubling Edward's rest; But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520 And the thumping in his breast. 'A mother too!' these self-same words Did Edward mutter plain; His face was drawn back on itself, With horror and huge pain. 525 Both groaned at once, for both knew well What thoughts were in his mind; When he waked up, and stared like one That hath been just struck blind. He sat upright; and ere the dream 530 Had had time to depart, 'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed) 'I have torn out her heart.' Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; 535 And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after.

Why these three graves all in a row

Stretch out their dark and gloomy length

He sat upright; and with quick voice While his eyes seem'd to start