Part 4 — SYDNEY DOBELL

THE murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, ‘O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!’ Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro’ the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother’s kine, The song that sang she! She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode thro’ the Monday morn. His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told. Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood— Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, ’Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning, All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning Bears witness that the absent can return, Return, return. Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness To feed the sorrowy signal for return, Return, return. Like it, like it, whene’er the east wind sings, I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, When Hope’s late butterflies, with whispering wings, Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn— Burn in the watchfire of return, Return, return. Like it, the very flame whereby I pine Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn My soul becomes a better soul than mine, And from its brightening beacon I discern My starry love go forth from me, and shine Across the seas a path for thy return, Return, return. Return, return! all night I see it burn, All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin Of palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn— Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, And wans the light that withers, tho’ it burn As warmly still for thy return; Still thro’ the splendid load uplifts the thin Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn Naught but that votive sign for thy return— That single suppliant sign for thy return, Return, return. Return, return! lest haply, love, or e’er Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, And thou, who thro’ the window didst discern The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair To find no wide eyes watching there, No wither’d welcome waiting thy return! A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, Warm with the famish’d fire that lived to burn— Burn out its lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, Return, return.

FIRST came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look’d she, And saw the storms go by. Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll’d by Wanders to and fro, So totter’d she, Dishevelled in the wind. Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a banner’d show’s advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has roll’d away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum. And all make holiday. Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands. At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands. The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed— And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed. Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain’d door, And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o’er the silent floor, And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red; ‘Touch him not,’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’ ‘O my own dear mistress,’ the ancient Nurse did say, ‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch’d him where he lay.’ ‘Seven long days and seven long nights,‘the hoary Steward said; ‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groan’d the Warrener gray; ‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bow’d his aged head; ‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried,‘he is but newly dead!’ Then a father Priest they sought, The Priest that taught her all she knew, And they told him of her loss. ‘For she is mild and sweet of will, She loved him, and his words are peace, And he shall heal her ill.’ But her watch she did not cease. He bless’d her where she sat distraught, And show’d her holy cross,— The cross she kiss’d from year to year— But she neither saw nor heard; And said he in her deaf ear All he had been wont to teach, All she had been fond to hear, Missall’d prayer, and solemn speech, But she answer’d not a word. Only when he turn’d to speak with those who wept about the bed, ‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’ Then how sadly he turn’d from her, it were wonderful to tell, And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, And he lean’d o’er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, ‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smooth’d his brow. ‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face! ‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’ ‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and call’d her maidens round. With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; O Nurse!’ she sigh’d, ‘O Nurse!’ she cried, ‘O Nurse!’ and then she smiled, And then she wept; with that they drew About her, as of old; Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, Her trembling touch was cold; But she said, ‘My maidens true, No more weeping and well-away; Let them kill the feast. I would be happy in my soul. “He is better,” saith the Priest; He did but sleep the weary day, And will waken whole. Carry me to his dear side, And let the halls be trim; Whistly, whistly,’ said she, ‘I am wan with watching and wail, He must not wake to see me pale, Let me sleep with him. See you keep the tryst for me, I would rest till he awake And rise up like a bride. But whistly, whistly!’ said she. ‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; And for His dear sake Say Laus, Domine.’ Silent they cast down their eyes, And every breast a sob did rive, She lifted her in wild surprise And they dared not disobey. ‘Laus Deo,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new; ‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; ‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee. The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, And she stood among the train Like a dead tree shaking dew. Then the Priest he softly slept Midway in the little band, And he took the Lady’s hand. ‘Laus Deo,’ he said aloud, ‘Laus Deo,’ they said again, Yet again, and yet again, Humbly cross’d and lowly bow’d, Till in wont and fear it rose To the Sabbath strain. But she neither turn’d her head Nor ‘Whistly, whistly,’ said she. Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.