Walter De La Mare 6

We finish our little season of poems by De La Mare with this episode, Six brief pieces, with a mixture of monsters and locations. A couple of minor notes in explanation. The first peopm is called “The Gage”, and it seems to have been read as “The Cage”. presumably because it was thought a spelling mistake. I don’t think it is: a gage is a thing promised as a forfeit for a broken promise. Also, the peddlar at the end seems to be a return one of our earliest celebratory episodes. Is this a goblin costermonger, from episode 50?

The Pilgrim

“Shall we carry now your bundle,
You old grey man?
Over hill and dale and meadow
Lighter than an owlet’s shadow
We will whirl it through the air,
Through blue regions shrill and bare,
So you may in comfort fare—
Shall we carry now your bundle,
    You old grey man?”

The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes
And saw three fiends, in the skies,
Stooping o’er that lonely place
    Evil in form and face.

“Nay,” he answered, “leave me, leave me,
  Ye three wild fiends!
Far it is my feet must wander,
And my city lieth yonder
I must bear my bundle alone,
    Till the day be done.”
The fiends stared down with leaden eye,
Fanning the chill air duskily,
‘Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:—

“Shall we smooth the path before you,
    You old grey man?
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it o’er with painted flowers,
Lure bright birds to sing and flit
In the honeyed airs of it?
Shall we smooth the path before you,
    Grey old man?”

“O, ’tis better silence, silence,
    Ye three wild fiends!
Footsore am I, faint and weary,
Dark the way, forlorn and dreary,
Beaten of wind, torn of briar,
Smitten of rain, parched with fire:
O, silence, silence, silence,
    Ye three wild fiends!”

It seemed a smoke obscured the air,
Bright lightning quivered in the gloom,
And a faint voice of thunder spake
Far in the lone hill-hollows—”Come!”
Then, half in fury, half in dread,
The fiends drew closer down, and said:

“Nay, thou stubborn fond old man,
    Hearken awhile!
Thorn, and dust, and ice and heat,
Tarry now, sit down and eat:
Heat, and ice, and dust and thorn;
Stricken, footsore, parched, forlorn—
Juice of purple grape shall be
Youth and solace unto thee.
Music of tambour, wire and wind,
Ease shall bring to heart and mind;
Wonderful sweet mouths shall sigh
Languishing and lullaby;
Turn then! Curse the dream that lures thee;
Turn thee, ere too late it be,
Lest thy three true friends grow weary
    Of comforting thee!”

The Pilgrim crouches terrified
As stooping hood, and glassy face,
Gloating, evil, side by side,
Terror and hate brood o’er the place;
He flings his withered hands on high
With a bitter, breaking cry:—
“Leave me, leave me, leave me, leave me,
    Ye three wild fiends!
If I lay me down in slumber,
Then I lay me down in wrath;
If I stir not in dark dreaming,
Then I wither in my path;
If I hear sweet voices singing,
‘Tis a demon’s lullaby:
And, in ‘hideous storm and terror,’
    Wake but to die.”

And even as he spake, on high
Arrows of sunlight pierced the sky.
Bright streamed the rain. O’er burning snow
From hill to hill a wondrous bow
Of colour and fire trembled in air,
Painting its heavenly beauty there.
Wild flapped each fiend a batlike hood
Against that ‘frighting light, and stood
Beating the windless rain, and then
Rose heavy and slow with cowering head,
Circled in company again,
And into darkness fled.

Marvellous sweet it was to hear
The waters gushing loud and clear;
Marvellous happy it was to be
Alone, and yet not solitary;
Oh, out of terror and dark to come
    In sight of home!

The Gage

“Lady Jane, O Lady Jane!
Your hound hath broken bounds again,
  And chased my timorous deer, O;
    If him I see,
    That hour he’ll dee;
  My brakes shall be his bier, O.”

“Hoots! lord, speak not so proud to me!
My hound, I trow, is fleet and free,
  He’s welcome to your deer, O;
    Shoot, shoot you may,
    He’ll gang his way,
  Your threats we nothing fear, O.”

He’s fetched him in, he’s laid him low,
Drips his lifeblood red and slow,
  Darkens his dreary eye, O;
   “Here is your beast,
    And now at least
  My herds in peace shall lie, O.”

“‘In peace!’ my lord, O mark me well!
For what my jolly hound befell
  You shall sup twenty-fold, O!
    For every tooth
    Of his, in sooth,
  A stag in pawn, I hold, O.

“Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn,
Shall scour your heaths and coverts lorn,
  Braying ’em shrill and clear, O;
    But lone and still
    Shall lift each hill,
  Each valley wan and sere, O.

“Ride up you may, ride down you may,
Lonely or trooped, by night or day,
  My hound shall haunt you ever:
    Bird, beast, and game
    Shall dread the same,
  The wild fish of your river.”

Her cheek burns angry as the rose,
Her eye with wrath and pity flows:
  He gazes fierce and round, O—
    “Dear Lord!” he says,
    “What loveliness
  To waste upon a hound, O.

“I’d give my stags, my hills and dales,
My stormcocks and my nightingales
  To have undone this deed, O;
    For deep beneath
    My heart is death
  Which for her love doth bleed, O.”

He wanders up, he wanders down,
On foot, a-horse, by night and noon:
  His lands are bleak and drear, O;
    Forsook his dales
    Of nightingales,
  Forsook his moors of deer, O,

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There’s nothing gladsome left on earth;
  All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
    Save where remote
    The moonbeams gloat,
  And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment—
  Lo! from a thicket hidden,
    Lovely as flower
    In April hour,
  Steps forth a form unbidden.

“Get ye now down, my lord, to me!
I’m troubled so I’m like to dee,”
  She cries, ‘twixt joy and grief, O;
    “The hound is dead,
    When all is said,
  But love is past belief, O.

“Nights, nights I’ve lain your lands to see,
Forlorn and still—and all for me,
  All for a foolish curse, O;
    Now here am I
    Come out to die—
  To live unloved is worse, O!”

In faith, this lord, in that lone dale,
Hears now a sweeter nightingale,
  And lairs a tenderer deer, O;
    His sorrow goes
    Like mountain snows
  In waters sweet and clear, O!

What ghostly hound is this that fleet
Comes fawning to his mistress’ feet,
  And courses round his master?
    How swiftly love
    May grief remove,
  How happy make disaster!

Now here he smells, now there he smells,
Winding his voice along the dells,
  Till grey flows up the morn, O
    Then hies again
    To Lady Jane
  No longer now forlorn, O.

Ay, as it were a bud, did break
To loveliness for her love’s sake,
  So she in beauty moving
    Rides at his hand
    Across his land,
  Beloved as well as loving.

The Ogre

‘Tis moonlight on Trebarwith Vale,
  And moonlight on an Ogre keen,
Who, prowling hungry through the dale,
  A lone cottage hath seen.

Small, with thin smoke ascending up,
  Three casements and a door—
The Ogre eager is to tap,
  And here seems dainty store.

Sweet as a larder to a mouse,
  So to him staring down,
Seemed the small-windowed moonlit house,
  With jasmine overgrown.

He snorted, as the billows snort
  In darkness of the night;
Betwixt his lean locks tawny-swart,
  He glowered on the sight.

Into the garden sweet with peas
  He put his wooden shoe,
And bending back the apple trees
  Crept covetously through;

Then, stooping, with a gloating eye
  Stared through the lattice small,
And spied two children which did lie
  Asleep, against the wall.

Into their dreams no shadow fell
  Of his disastrous thumb
Groping discreet, and gradual,
  Across the quiet room.

But scarce his nail had scraped the cot
  Wherein these children lay,
As if his malice were forgot,
  It suddenly did stay.

For faintly in the ingle-nook
  He heard a cradle-song,
That rose into his thoughts and woke
  Terror them among.

For she who in the kitchen sat
  Darning by the fire,
Guileless of what he would be at,
  Sang sweet as wind or wire:—

“Lullay, thou little tiny child,
  By-by, lullay, lullie;
Jesu in glory, meek and mild,
  This night remember thee!

“Fiend, witch, and goblin, foul and wild,
  He deems them smoke to be;
Lullay, thou little tiny child,
  By-by, lullay, lullie!”

The Ogre lifted up his eyes
  Into the moon’s pale ray,
And gazed upon her leopard-wise,
  Cruel and clear as day;

He snarled in gluttony and fear—
  “The wind blows dismally—
Jesu in storm my lambs be near,
  By-by, lullay, lullie!”

And like a ravenous beast which sees
  The hunter’s icy eye,
So did this wretch in wrath confess
  Sweet Jesu’s mastery.

Lightly he drew his greedy thumb
  From out that casement pale,
And strode, enormous, swiftly home,
  Whinnying down the dale.

The Pedlar

     There came a Pedlar to an evening house;
     Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down,
     Wondered what man he was, so curious
     His black hair dangled on his tattered gown:
     Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes, –
     ‘What will you buy, sweetheart? – Here’s honeycomb,
     And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies,
     Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom,
     To keep in water for to make night sweet:
     All that you want, sweetheart, – come, taste and eat!’

     Ev’n with his sugared words, returned to her
     The clear remembrance of a gentle voice: –
     ‘And O! my child, should ever a flatterer
     Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys
     And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be;
     Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song,
     Confuse his magic who is all mockery:
     His sweets are death.’ Yet, still, how she doth long
     But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight,
     And hide her eyes from the delicious sight!

     ‘What must I pay?’ she whispered. ‘Pay!’ says he,
     ‘Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam,
     One lock of hair is gold enough for me,
     For apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!’
     But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried,
     ‘Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!’
     And many another woodland tongue beside
     Rose softly in the silence – ‘Trust him not!’
     Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice,
     ‘What, in the thicket, is this idle noise?’

     A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,
     As through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew;
     Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings, –
     ‘What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you?
     Here’s orange ribands, here’s a string of pearls,
     Here’s silk of buttercup and pansy glove,
     A pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls,
     A box of silver, scented sweet with clove:
     Come now,’ he says, with dim and lifted face,
     ‘I pass not often such a lonely place.’

     ‘Pluck not a hair!’ a hidden rabbit cried,
     ‘With but one hair he’ll steal thy heart away,
     Then only sorrow shall thy lattice hide:
     Go in! all honest pedlars come by day.’
     There was dead silence in the drowsy wood;
     ‘Here’s syrup for to lull sweet maids to sleep;
     And bells for dreams, and fairy wine and food
     All day thy heart in happiness to keep’; –
     And now she takes the scissors on her thumb, –
     ‘O, then, no more unto my lattice come!’

     O sad the sound of weeping in the wood!
     Now only night is where the Pedlar was;
     And bleak as frost upon a too-sweet bud
     His magic steals in darkness, O alas!
     Why all the summer doth sweet Lettice pine?
     And, ere the wheat is ripe, why lies her gold
     Hid ‘neath fresh new-pluckt sprigs of eglantine?
     Why all the morning hath the cuckoo tolled,
     Sad to and fro in green and secret ways,
     With lonely bells the burden of his days?

     And, in the market-place, what man is this
     Who wears a loop of gold upon his breast,
     Stuck heartwise; and whose glassy flatteries
     Take all the townsfolk ere they go to rest
     Who come to buy and gossip? Doth his eye
     Remember a face lovely in a wood?
     O people! hasten, hasten, do not buy
     His woful wares; the bird of grief doth brood
     There where his heart should be; and far away
     Dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day!

The Stranger

In the woods as I did walk,
  Dappled with the moon’s beam,
I did with a Stranger talk,
  And his name was Dream.

Spurred his heel, dark his cloak,
  Shady-wide his bonnet’s brim;
His horse beneath a silvery oak
  Grazed as I talked with him.

Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone;
  Hill and deep were in his eyes;
One of his hands held mine, and one
  The fruit that makes men wise.

Wondrously strange was earth to see,
  Flowers white as milk did gleam;
Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree,
  Over my head with Dream.

Dews were still betwixt us twain;
  Stars a trembling beauty shed;
Yet—not a whisper comes again
  Of the words he said.