Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed Against the dark red tide.
"Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!
Your sins are red," he cried; "Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom The King of Heaven died!"
Drunken with blood and l.u.s.t of fight, Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.
"Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep Before thy foolish fane!
Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep, That thou mayst know their pain!"
He stood, and saw his monks all slain; The altar steps ran red; In horrid heaps men lay about, The dying with the dead; And the east brightened, and the sky Grew rosy overhead.
Then from the church a tiny puff Of smoke rose "gainst the sky, Out broke the fire, and flame on flame Leaped palely out on high, Till but the church"s walls were left For men to know it by.
And when the sweet sun laughed again O"er fields and furrows brown, The brave archbishop hid his eyes, Until the tears dropped down On the charred blackness of the wreck Of Canterbury town.
"Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word Unto thy timid sheep, And bid them greaten up their hearts, And to our feet dare creep, And bring a ransom here which we, Instead of thee, may keep!"
Archbishop Alphege stood alone, Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed; Loaded with chains, with aching heart, And wounded in the side; And in his hour of utmost pain Thus to the Dane replied:
"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow Before this thing shall be; If I be held till ransom come, I never shall be free; For by G.o.d"s heart, G.o.d"s poor shall never Be robbed to ransom me!"
They flung him in a dungeon dark, They heaped on him fresh chains, They promised him unnumbered ills And unimagined pains; But still he said, "No English shall Be taxed to profit Danes!"
Six months pa.s.sed by; no ransom came; Their threats had almost ceased, When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve, A great and brutal feast; And they sent and dragged the Christian man Before the pagan beast.
Down the great hall, from east to west, The long rough tables ran; They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer, And then the drink began-- At last in all that mighty hall Was not one sober man.
"Twas then they brought the bishop forth Before the drunken throng; And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried, "You are weak, and we are strong, Or, by the hand of Thor, you die-- We have borne with you too long!"
The savage faces of the Danes Leered redly all around; The bones of beasts and empty cups Lay heaped upon the ground, And "mid the crowd of howling wolves The Christian saint stood bound.
He looked in Thorkill"s angry eyes And knew what thing should be, Then spake: "By G.o.d, who died to save The poor, and me, and thee, Thou art not strong enough--G.o.d"s poor Shall not be taxed for me!"
"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round The rising tumult ran.
"I give my life, I give G.o.d"s word, I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!"
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose With one fierce shout and yell; They flung at him the bones of beasts, They aimed right strong and well.
"O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"
The bishop cried--and fell.
And so men call him "Saint," yet some Deemed this an unearned crown, Since "twas not for the Church or faith He laid his brave life down; But otherwise men deemed of it In Canterbury town.
"Not for the Church he died," they said, "Yet he our saint shall be, Since for Christ"s poor he gave his life, So for Christ"s self died he.
"Who does it to the least of these, Has done it unto Me!""
MORNING.
It was about the time of day When all the lawns with dew are wet; I wandered down a steep wood-way, And there I met with Margaret-- Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met: I could not find a word to say, And she was silent too--and yet For hand and lips I dared to pray-- And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay, Her eyes are like the violet; Will time take this joy, too, away, And ever teach me to forget-- And to forget without regret-- The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
THE PRAYER.
They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of G.o.d or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace-- A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not G.o.d laugh out in my face?
Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
THE RIVER MAIDENS.
When autumn winds the river grieve, And autumn mists about it creep, The river maids all shivering leave The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow Alike are impotent to break The spell of sleep that laid them low-- The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace Strews blossom on the river"s breast, Flowers fall upon each sleeping face And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar Through alders green and willows gray, They rise where sedge and iris are, And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
They lie beside the river"s edge, By fields with b.u.t.tercups a-blaze; They whisper in the whispering sedge, They say the spell the cuckoo says.
And when they hear the nightingale And see the blossomed hawthorn tree, What time the orchard pink grows pale-- The river maidens beckon me.
Through all the city"s smoke appear White arms and golden hair a-gleam, And through the noise of life I hear "Come back--to the enchanted stream.
"Come back to water, wood and weir!